Day 1, Phase 1

[The Man in Red]

"And now, my dear contestants, it is time for you all to wake up!" the voice resounded from countless intercom speakers across the surface of the island, making it all but impossible to miss the announcement. "We may not have spoken before, but allow me to introduce myself: you may refer to me as the Man in Red. I am the host of this lovely event in which you are all partaking. Do forgive my rude awakening, but the start of the games cannot wait for something so frivolous as slumber!"

"That said...allow me to officially welcome you to the Death Game, and announce the core rules of this entire event: Do not leave the island. Find the other contestants. Team up, kill each other, whatever you must do to survive. Until only one of you is left standing."

"This game of ours will only last for seven days. Plenty of time for you all to get out there and kill each other! If there isn't a lone survivor to claim victory by that time, then...alas! No one wins! And we just can't have that, now can we?"

"The game officially begins when the clock tolls at midnight. Enjoy your last few minutes before you are on the clock! And remember: you're on camera. Do put on your best performance, won't you?"

With a crackling hiss of static, the intercom went dead to be replaced shortly by the deep, echoing tick-tock of a clock.

The Man in Red, his announcement made, settled into his chair in the hidden observation platform to watch the events as they unfolded. Along with the viewing window itself, there was a monitor displaying a much closer view of each individual contestant, and a larger one displaying a mirror of the footage currently being shown for 'broadcast' to the Crossroads at large.

"I do wonder which of these little ones will emerge the victor... These games are always so telling, regardless of their context." This was far from the first time he had put on such a show, far from the first Death Game he had hosted. This format may have been new to him...but it just held so much promise.


Bulletins and Updates (These are Important, make sure to read 'em)

• All contestants were fitted with a collar and then brought to the island via teleportation while sleeping, or else forcefully put to sleep to arrange such a transition. This is done to prevent knowing where you are, especially in relation to other contestants. The map in your survival bag will at least tell you your starting position on the island. You need not roleplay out this arrival, but are welcome to do so.
• Currently, the time on the island is just a few minutes before midnight (somewhere between 11:55 PM and 12:00 AM). In-character, you will have a few minutes to get your bearings, look through your survival bag, find/figure out your weapon or support item, check your map to determine where you are, and other such things. After a few minutes and at exactly midnight, a clock will toll across the island to signify the start of the event.
• The ticking of a clock will be a repeating motif, which begins in the last 15 minutes of any given phase to signify to all surviving contestants of the passing of time and ongoing events.
• Weather: Currently it is somewhat cloudy and overcast, as if threatening rain in the coming hours. A new moon is in the sky, making it rather dark out, with only starlight for illumination.
• Danger/Dead Zones: All spaces which are 100% ocean are immediately considered one of these right off the bat. To clarify, that is the following:
  • Danger Zones: G1, H1, I1, J1, K1, L1, C2, N3, N4, N5, A7, B10, C12, D13, F13, N13, F14, M14
  • Dead Zones: A1, B1, C1, M1, N1, A2, B2, N2, A3, A8, A9, A10, A11, B11, A12, B12, A13, B13, C13, A14, B14, C14, D14, E14, N14
• Tomorrow, November 11, at [insert time here], I will lock this thread to post an announcement as the Man in Red, and then begin the new phase in a separate thread. This will coincide with the clock striking 0600 at Sunrise. This means it will be dark out for this phase.
  • At the time of the phase change, the Danger Zones will become Dead Zones: G1, H1, I1, J1, K1, L1, C2, N3, N4, N5, A7, B10, C12, D13, F13, N13, F14, M14
  • The following spaces will become Danger Zones: D1, A4, N6, B9, G14
• Remember to use PMs for any official correspondence, including: movements, alliances, any 'prep' for upcoming or expected face-offs, or anything else. You may use other methods, such as Discord DMs or the appropriate channel for this, to ask other questions, as always.

 

[Karl Jak]

The man in the suit checked his watch.

He looked up and scowled at the scenery around him.

“Island…” Karl Jak shook his head as he adjusted his bowtie. When he had received the initial compensation package from Syntech, he had been concerned about the allotment, but now that he was staring at the island setting with zero memories of the preshow, he truly understood the depths to which his situation had sunk.

“Thanks, Karl,” the executive producer muttered as he brushed away some dirt and knelt next to his package. “You just had to give me the damn ‘autumnal activity’ package.” Everyone in the company knew that the best package was the ‘summer sunshine’ set. Wasn’t he supposed to be an effective representative of Syntech?

“Missed out on the whole preshow,” Karl grumbled aloud. “Like I’m some type of middle-aged person who only writes for two months in the summer before vanishing into the nether.” The producer retrieved a bottle of water, twisted the cap off, and took a long sip while pulling the duffel bag’s strap up over his head. “Is this the same brand?” He mumbled as he looked down at the nondescript bag filled with his supplies. His eyes fell back to the bottle of water, which was unlabeled. As he zipped the bag closed, Karl shook his head at the assortment of MREs.

“How is this not copyright infringement?”

With his situation properly assessed, the man in the purple suit brushed the sediment off of his knees, capped the bottle of water, and stuffed it into the gap he had left in the duffel’s zipper. Reaching up to his neck, he tapped the collar around his neck and chuckled. They couldn’t even give it their own stylistic flair? Maybe add some spikes or ribs (for his and her pleasure, naturally).

Somewhere in the distance, Karl Jak registered the ‘host’ of the event as he ran through a bunch of strongly familiar bullet points.

“Find each other. Kill each other,” the executive producer said with a soft smile as he adjusted his hair and set out for parts unknown.

 

[Mad Maggie]

I came to on soft and shifting sands, the calm stillness of nature around me as I gathered my bearings and checked the gear bag they'd dropped me with. The collar around my neck was an afterthought. The Apex Games had experimented with such hackneyed thrills before but soon abandoned them. In any case, the contents of the duffel were more than what I was used to beginning a game with.

I felt nearly naked without my heavy chemical apparatus, the rules apparently banning personal weapons. No gas...which meant I would have the opportunity to study other, more esoteric forms of expiration. The weapons i'd been given were already more than enough to engage someone and score an early game first blood.

The Apex Games had guns, ammo, ordinance, and medicine lying around for contestants to race each other to. Here, no such luck was to be scavenged, which meant the only other weapons were in the hands of other contestants. And I was much more comfortable in close quarters. I began to move east, affixing the pack to my shoulders and starting to hike away from the water, deeper inland.

Time to experiment.

 

[The Man in Red]

Face-Off
#011 Dr. Caustic vs. #003 Gengar
​

"Welcome to the city, Doctor. I trust you will enjoy your stay here. There is a lovely monument to be had in the central square, which is not commonly known to contain an internal compartment for maintenance work, as well as providing a backdoor access to the viewing platform at the top. You can find the access hatch...seventeen paces due southeast, beneath a false bush. I'm sure you will enjoy the view."

The doctor huffed as he clutched the old-fashioned radio in one hand, as he peered out through the windows of the viewing platform. Much as he was loath to admit it, it did indeed provide an adequate view of the surrounding city. All but the tallest of buildings, few and far between as they were, he could see right over. The dim lighting of night made it hard to find much value in his heightened perch, but...it gave enough. The starlight flickering and reflecting off of many windows and fountains below provided just enough pale illumination to see by.

...and to pick out the hazy form of the odd figure flitting about among the city below.

"Ah. Another contestant. How lovely." The radio in his hand crackled to life again, with a merry hiss of static. "Contestant number 3. Known as Gengar. A ghost of some description, if you can believe it." There was open amusement in the speaker's tone, and they trailed off into a mocking chortle. "Ridiculous as it may seem...this one has all kinds of tricks up its sleeves. A prankster and trickster, fond of causing all manner of scares and frights, sometimes even to death. Not a pushover by any means, and it can fire...some manner of shadow-based energy projectiles. It doesn't need to sleep, or require sustenance, and it seems able to pass through solid matter. Do be careful, won't you, Doctor?"

Caustic hissed a derisive breath as the radio crackled on for another few seconds before going silent. "A ghost...preposterous." He shoved the contraption into the bag slung over his shoulder and gripped the railing of the viewing platform, squinting down at the odd figure. "But this does offer a prime opportunity..."

* * *
​

Gengar merrily flitted through the darkened streets below. Passing by, and through, the numerous discarded vehicles and old buildings. All of them still stocked and flush with supplies, some even with doors still partially open. As if the inhabitants had all just been...picked up and removed in the middle of a normal day. "What a waste... All this stuff just left lyin' around!" the ghost pokemon lamented, with a sigh of faux-sadness. Really he was just bummed about the place being so abandoned. No one around to deliver a good scare to!

At least he had these weird little toys from the bag of survival stuff he'd been given. The food and water was useless, but this other stuff...

His grin widened as he fiddled with the remote control in his hands, the somewhat tinny thunder of a replica engine driving the small tank beside him as it rolled forward, crushing pebbles under its treads like boulders would have been under its full-sized brethren. A little click of the buttons, and bullet-shaped pellets clatterd out of the barrel to leave small dents in a car. The ghost cackled at the absurdity.

...then stopped as he heard the light crunching over stone from a source not of his new toy. He stopped in place, peering around for a moment in confusion as his grin momentarily slipped into a half-frown. "Who's there?" Was somebody trying to scare the scarer? The nerve!

He tossed the control lazily into his bag, clapping his hands together once. "Come on out, already! Let's have some--gwagh!"

His words were cut off mid-sentence by the sharp crack of a glass bottle hitting him in the back of the head, shattering and spilling its contents all over him. It was more from surprise than pain, but it sure didn't feel good! He whirled around to leer angrily into the darkness of a storefront, as a wheezing cackle came from it, and a humanoid form slowly revealed itself from the gloom, clutching another bottle in one hand. "Remarkably solid for a ghost," his rasping voice taunted.

"And you have some pretty stern guts for a human," he snarled, and scrambled forward toward the interloper.

The human drew back his empty hand into a fist as he jogged the few steps out of the doorway and into the open, and they met...or would have, had the ghost not snickered and dropped through the ground like diving into water. Caustic stumbled, with an irritated grunt, before regaining his footing and slowly turning in place. "Passing through solid matter...and so quickly. How quaint."

A dull sound of crackling energy caught his ears, and he instinctively dove aside into a quick, if somewhat clumsy roll. He came to on his back, scrambling to his feet as he saw a ball of crackling energy turn the side of a car into sparking wreckage. "Dangerous..." he hissed, pushing up into a sitting position and producing a bundle of matches from his belt. He frantically tore it open, and struck one as the 'ghost' slowly crawled out of a shadow, face split nearly in two by a vicious grin.

"Sure am, pal. More than I can say for you," Gengar sneers while stalking forward, hands clapping together again and readying another Shadow Ball.

"Fool." The doctor reeled back and hurled the bottle in his hand at the ghost, who nimbly dodged it with a mocking laugh as it shattered at his feet...only to have the lit match tumble into the puddle and erupt in a sheet of flame.

Gengar screeched in surprise again, reeling and rolling among the sudden conflagration as Caustic let out a sinister chuckle. "Not my usual brand of science...but even something so basic can still have its uses." He quickly turned and loped away into a darkened alley as the ghost angrily slapped out the flames and rolled clear of the puddle.

"You jerk!" he screeched into the night, leering around fruitlessly to try and see where the human had gone.

Results

20 Contestants Remain​

Gengar has suffered from a broken bottle to the dome, and several minor burns. (Minor injury together)
Gengar has the Edelweiss.
Dr. Caustic has the Radio.

Gengar and Dr. Caustic are now on an 8-hour cooldown where they cannot engage in another Face-Off. This cooldown is negated if they move from theri current space or PM me to waive it.

 

[King Shark]

“...you’ll be able to scan the island to find out where all your new friends and enemies are hiding out!”

He read the note aloud in his head, first, and then he read it out loud for real to taste the sound of the words rolling off of his tongue. A devilish grin split wide Katsuki Bakugo’s face from cheek to cheek. Bakugo - the man, the myth, the edgelord. And here he was with not one useful tool…

But two!

He hefted up a tommy gun and felt the weight of it talk back against his muscles with pleasing resistance. That was the weapon for him - something with some weight and some punch. Something with REAL explosive force behind it, just like him. Loud and brash and without any subtlety. A tommy gun - the Chicago Typewriter as this one in particular was named - was the Bakugo of weaponry. If you’d placed him in an armory and set him up against a dizzying array of weapon choices, this might’ve been the one he chose, second only to a belt of hand grenades or something...and even then the tommy gun might win out. Hand grenades might feel a little redundant given that his hands were, well, grenades themselves.

His first item tinted half of the world rouge the way it veiled his left eye. An appendage mounted pinkish glass in front of his irises, which hung onto his ear by means of a surprisingly comfortable headset not unlike a single headphone. It seemed to vacuum seal to the ear through the magic of science - Bakugo couldn’t be assed to read into the specifics of what bound the damn thing there - and was a fair sight more comfortable than he might’ve anticipated.

Better yet, after reading the note that accompanied the device, Baku brought his hand up to the outside shell of the earpiece and pressed a button on its interface. A feed of the island’s map manifested before his eye, and luckier still! The map was riddled with dots. This motherfucking thing detailed the location of every. Single. Competitor. Sure, it didn’t mention them by name, but did you really need to know the name of someone you were swiss-cheesing with a tommy gun? Baku didn’t think so. As a matter of fact, in his experience, it was a little easier to put down an opponent when you had no face to put to the name. Names humanized. Humanizing your prey...that’s just poor morality, right?

Here, on the island, he wasn’t looking to humanize. This was his chance to cut loose. He’d start with a warning: hunt the closest blip to him, give that faceless blip an injury they wouldn’t forget, and then show it mercy and let it go. An act of kindness to show that he was capable of it, so the audience knew he wasn’t a monster.

Then, he’d kill the next blip on the map he encountered. Ruthless, cold-blooded murder, baby. Just to show the audience that he COULD be a monster. If he wanted to. Let them know that things weren’t always so black and white when it came to morality - every hero could be a villain, and every villain could be a hero.

And so it was that the 'hero' calling himself Ground Zero set off, tommy gun slung over his shoulder, with his scouter as his beacon guiding the way to his first quarry. Smirking, loping through bushes with caution to the wind and no sense of subtlety, Bakugo reminded himself that he was the hunter...and the game was afoot.

 

[The Man in Red]

Face-off
#008 Cell vs #005 Katsuki Bakugo​

The young hero swiftly made his way along. Despite the distance of his trek, the clear pings on the scouter over his left eye remained mostly consistent and gave him clear heading. Down from the mountainous foothills he went, and around the outskirts of a small city. Nothing in there for him just yet, until he met his first self-stated goals.

There was one target he was rapidly zeroing in on. With any luck, he would be upon it before anyone else could…

He slowed to a stop, his manic grin faltering slightly. One of those signatures was moving now. Right toward him.

With a growl, the ash-blonde hero reached up to press at the buttons on the device, trying to do something to change its display. Maybe for more clarity, or a closer view or something...but the display simply flickered and changed entirely, the grid layout view switching to a more simple visual scanning format with a targeting reticle and little else.

He scowled as he turned in place this way and that, scanning his surroundings through squinted eyes. It was dark out...and out here in the middle of nowhere, with no light sources except the stars… He swore under his breath, reaching for the tommy gun slung over his back with one hand, getting it ready to…

crack

The snapping of a twig underfoot made the hero whirl around, yanking the gun into one hand and pressing the trigger down to unleash a spattering hail of gunfire along the ground. Dirt, grass and leaves spewed into the air, but no sound of anything else being hit.

A few deep breaths left him as he slowly shifted his hold on the rifle into a more proper one, the one hand supporting it remaining loose and ready to let fly with his own powers as well. He was being way too jumpy here, for some reason. It just didn't sit right with him. He would have to--

shhhrk-sssnap

Much closer this time, the breaking of a larger piece of wood maong the rustling of leaves and grass. Whatever it was was...big, and moving extremely smoothly. A tactical response, of only a short burst of gunfire followed by a cascading sweep of small explosions ripped the area apart, momentarily lighting his surroundings up.

For an instant, like in the freeze-frame clarity of a lightning strike, Bakugo caught sight of something stalking toward him. Inhumanly tall, mottled green skin and pale, pink eyes sporting predatory, almost reptilian slits. Then darkness resumed and whatever the monstrosity was vanished.

Bakugo wasn’t perturbed by the thing’s appearance though; he’d seen way too many weird-ass quirks and bizarre creatures already to let this get to him. It was the way it was moving. Like a predatory beast, but there was something all too intelligent in those eyes. He lifted a fumbling hand up to the scouter, pressing at the buttons as he swept his vision this way and that, occasionally spinning in place. “C’mon, where the fuck are you?! Get out here and fight, already!” he snarled.

“Such antiquated technology, only able to scan in one direction,” a voice rasped from all too close by. Bakugo started and whirled around, tommy gun already spraying a hail of bullets, even as he felt something sharp pierce into his side, carving a long and bloody cut from his waist nearly to his ribs.

Large splotches of purple spattered the ground, along with a hissing shriek of agony, even as Bakugo let go of the rifle in his hand and swept both hands out blindly to let loose a deafening, blinding wall of explosive force.

When the haze in his eyes and ears cleared, there was nothing left there but singed grass and the messy spattering of red and purple blood on the grass. Wincing, he clutched at his side and the long, clean-edged gash in his side. “What in the hell…was that creep?” he seethed.

”Results”

20 Contestants Remain​

Bakugo has sustained a deep stab wound to the left side of his waist, and a long shallow cut along his side and up toward his chest. (Minor Injury all together)
Cell has sustained numerous bullet wounds and large amounts of bruising and burns over his torso. (Minor Injury all together)

Cell has the Butterfly Knife.
Bakugo has (as he revealed himself) the Scouter and the Tommy Gun.

 

[Fennec Shand]

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock…

Izuku Midoriya was a heavy sleeper. Happy dreams ran through his innocent, carefree sleeping mind, relishing in the only escape he had from the incessant anxieties that plagued him throughout the day. In slumber, he found the contentment and certainty that eluded him in everyday life, filled to the brim with as many endorphins as he could’ve ever wanted and free from the trappings and pressures of his life goals. His dedication to getting what he wanted, to making the best hero he could, was admirable, but the toll that quest took was undeniable.

Under the spell of whatever concoction had pulled him into this slumber, he slept even better. He rode dragons through the sky, swung a sword at dastardly enemies… he felt powerful. He felt connected to himself and his abilities in a way he hadn’t felt for quite a long time, so he clung to unconsciousness like it was his last lifeline. The pinging message of the Man In Red echoed through his eardrums, but he couldn’t hear it. He comprehended none of the mysterious figures words as he curled up in his spot, snoozing away. It wasn’t that the noise wasn’t unbearably loud (it was) or that what the island’s host had to say was boring (it wasn’t). Rather, the dream world Deku lived in bobbed in and out of wonders so tantalizing his mind couldn’t bear to willingly awake him from it to listen in.

And then: BONG.

Midoriya’s eyes snapped open with a start, and immediately found themselves splashed by salt water. He scrambled out of his curled up fetal position and stumbled onto his feet, crushing grains of dirt beneath him as he put some distance between himself and the harsh ocean. He reached up and, against his better judgment, started to rub his eyes where the salt water had flown in.

“Ow, ow, ow,” he groaned involuntarily as the burn only worsened with each dig into his eyeballs. Tears welled up on his eyelids, and he felt them begin to roll down his cheek as he flailed around, trying to catch a cool breeze to soothe himself with.

“Dammit…” he spoke, louder than he probably should’ve. Less than a minute in to his time on — well, wherever this was, and he’d already started crying. Sure, it wasn’t prompted by any emotional triggers, so at least his therapist could be satisfied enough by that, but nevertheless, he felt embarrassment creeping up his spine. He knew if Kacchan were here, he’d probably be taking him over the coals for turning into a crybaby already.

Kacchan.

Several thoughts hit him like a brick as he blinked some of the salt water out with his tears.

Where was Kacchan? He glanced around, then placed a hand to his head as he started, for the first time since waking, to get his bearings. He thought, briefly, about calling out for the ash blonde boy, the person he’d been living with for quite a while now, his partner in… something… but felt the distinct urge that he probably shouldn’t. The boy wasn’t within sight, and from what Deku could tell, he was outside, so if Katsuki Bakugo had been around, well… he probably would’ve seen him. This area seemed to be some sort of beach. A tree line stood just up a few meters, potentially hiding a similarly-unconscious Bakugo — but it could also be hiding any number of things, considering that Izuku was beginning to realize he had no clue where the hell he was.

He placed a hand on his hip and was surprised to feel skin meet skin. His cheeks flashed red. He knew it’d felt a little breezy as he flailed around, but as he glanced down, he realized he’d ended up on this beach — or, well, more of a shore, without the sand and all — without… well, without anything on. Instinctively, his hands flew to his most private area, covering it so the big crowd of exactly no one couldn’t see.

He stumbled back as a wave of embarrassment started to wash over him, his ankle catching on a olive-colored duffle bag. He tumbled backwards, landing flat on his bare butt in the grass. He glanced down at the bag, continuing to be astounded and amazed by the circumstances, and immediately tore into it, unzipping it and yanking out the first piece of cloth he could feel. A white t-shirt emerged, clutched in one hand, and in the other, a pair of mint green boxer shorts. He wasted no time pulling him on as he tried to make heads or tails of the various strange things assaulting his brain since he’d been vaulted out of unconsciousness.

He went over it in his head one more time, in sequence.

A loud, pingy bell, nowhere nearby but somehow ringing at enough decibels to be heard clearly, by him, in probably his deepest sleep. Waking up naked on a grassy shore, splashed by salt water, with a strange, military-looking bag next to him, filled with clothes and… other various things. He scanned the rest of the bag’s contents, looking for some sort of clue, but little emerged as his hands passed over some meal pouches; some water bottles; a map of what, he supposed, was this island; a weird-looking round jingly thing (the fuck?); a pair of sharp looking kitchen knives.

Hm.

As none of the clues fit into place, he began to realize he had… no puzzle for them to slot into in the first place. A few stray pieces lingered in his brain, but Izuku Midoriya suddenly started to round the corner on the most horrifying realization yet: he didn’t even really have a picture at all of his life before waking up on this mysterious shore.

He stood up, bare feet kicking some dry dirt as he pulled the duffel bag off the ground and started towards the tree line. How he’d gotten here was certainly a pressing question — but more than that, he found himself struggling to grasp really anything he’d been doing the past few months… even years of his life. Images of Katsuki Bakugo, his frenemy till the end-emy, flashed pretty clear in his brain… they’d been at each other’s throats and on each other’s heels long enough that Deku didn’t know if he’d ever forget the spitfire boy. But few other things from his life before this fateful slumber, before waking up here on this island with no sense of direction whatsoever.

As he decided to just fucking pick one and maybe things would fall into place later, shades of something… an aspiration… an ambition, maybe… started to form out of patches in his muddied brain. A word stuck out to him. He started to be able to see it, feel it, smell it clear as day.

H-...

He-...

Gyro?

Just past the tree line, Izuku Midoriya stopped in his tracks. He reached into the still half-open zip pouch of his duffel bag and lifted up one of the kitchen knives, holding it before him almost reverently.

Gyro.

Everything started to fall into place.

 

[Omelette Robotnik]

While sleeping wasn't really something The Prisoner was capable of doing, the noxious gas that was pumped into its room accomplished much the same goal. One moment, it was spending time with its new 'friend', the lavender specter who had called himself 'Gengar'. When next it was conscious of its surroundings, a smooth voice was speaking from a nearby klaxon, telling The Prisoner of the rules and goals of this event.

While the night was dark and gloomy, The Prisoner's head, glowing purple, provided enough light for the undead to survey its surroundings. Grasslands lay to its rear, and before it the vast ocean lapped gently at the beach it was deposited on. Overhead, the sharp pip of bats could be heard, eager to make meals of the various insects attracted to The Prisoner's lightsource and stench of decay.

For a moment, it stayed seated on the beach, perhaps in reminiscence of the time it spent in the Barracks, with the strange ghost whom had made a point to speak to it. But, perhaps it should be wary of such displays of friendship. After all, Cell had warned it about Mid-Boss, and it was entirely likely that others would use similar strategies.

Of course, it didn't matter much, at that time. The Prisoner was very much alone on that beach, so thoughts of alliance and cooperation were a rather moot point. Instead, it swung the olive duffle upon its pack towards its lap and began to inspect the contents.

The rations and water were immediately discarded, since the undead had no need for food or drink. It didn't even have a mouth! Instead, its gaze focused on two items of curiosity and it removed the first from its canvas home.

Eyes are large as its own, the mask it held in its hands practically radiated a dangerous and mystical aura. Golden spikes ringed the edges, and, like itself, it had no mouth to speak of. For a long time, it did little more than meet the imperious gaze of the item, and why not? With such a powerful artifact, nothing would be beyond its grasp. Moons would fall at its command. Time itself would be at its beck and call. This game was as good as won. And, so, it made sense that The Prisoner wished to fully appreciate this moment.

But, destiny would not wait forever. Slowly, yet deliberately, The Prisoner raised the mask to its 'face'. If it needed to breathe, no doubt it would be holding its breath in anticipation. And, as the mask made contact… the wooden item burst into flame. Flame yellow with shock, the undead cast the burning mask into the ocean, and while the flame was, indeed, snuffed, the metal casing on the artifact quickly sent it beneath the waves.

Large eye blinking slowly, The Prisoner's shoulders sank in defeat.

 

[Shallan Davar]

We wakes under the Pale face, in the grass, in the mud. They leaves us there, precious, in the mud. They flies away from us, as the Red Man speaks his flapping lips. A warning not to run away, not to flee the island, precious or they kills us! Our handses reaches to our own throat, and there it is. We feels it, precious, the cold metal. the beeping and blinking thing that traps us here! We must be free of it!

For a moment we thinks to pry it loose then and there! To rend it with our grasping fingers if we can. One, two, three fingers we worms our way into the collar, but it beeps and screeches at us! We scowls at it, but we hears another beep precious, above us. We looks up and sees the little humming eyes watching us. They floats and flutters in the night sky. It calls to the humming eyes, precious, it warns them of what we plans! No, we cannot escapes the biting, beeping noose just yet, precious, they will SEE!

We must find a way to escape their eyes! We tears into the bag they leaves us, dried bread, pale water, useless, useless! Even the metal and the dead tree skin cannot helps us escape. We could hide, but they knows where we are! We must move, precious, we must creep away, carefully, dreadful careful, find a little nock where the humming eyes cannot follow us! Or perhaps where we can ambush them, precious? A blind corner in a tunnel perhaps, where we could snatch them from the air and dash their little metal heads upon the rockses!

Yes, quickly precious, while the Pale face is out, we must move quickly! We will leaves behind what we do not need. We do not need their tricksey, false gifts, no need for cans and bottles! We starts to go, but we remembers, we remembers the others… there are others we must avoid and others we must kill. They needs the gifts from the Red Man, doesn’t they precious? Yes…. We wouldn’t wants to gives them a free meal…

With a gleeful howl we pounces on the bags, grasping and prodding with our reaching fingers! We tears apart their cans and bageses! We scatters their crumbs to the wind! We takes the bottles and bashes them against the rocks until they bursts apart! They shatters and splatters like goblin skulls precious, in the darks and the deeps we cannot always see, but we can hear it splash the same as always precious, we can hear it soaks the ground...

We sits back in a job well done, but we do not lingers, precious, musn’t linger! There is much to do, much to be done, precious! we will find fresher meats and cleaner streams, yes precious! We will find our new hideaways! We takes the tools and we scrambles away into the long grasses!

 

[Mad Maggie]

Moving on once more, sprinting through open storefronts and clambering up low roofs. It would be prudent to continue moving forward, leaving behind the foolish spirit to lick his injuries and be easy meat for another competitor. Besides, as the showrunner mentioned, we were being filmed. A decisive victory like that would win me points early on and show the audience that I was not like the rest of these insects.

Finally, I took a moment to lean against an outdoor freezer and pull a small notebook from my vest. Clicking it open, I began to sketch the purple thing i'd faced, along with the odd abilities it had used. At the bottom. i underlined "Fire proven effective."

It almost felt like cheating, having a constant line open to an informant. Their attitude could use some adjustment, as I was not a fan of the snark that came along with the descriptions. Still, useful information. I added a rough sketch of the surrounding area I'd already traversed through, adding the tactical points in case I should end up fighting here again. The same had happened many a time in King's Canyon and World's Edge. The arena was a bit more improvised than the abandoned ruins I was used to.

Following the radio's advice, I went further down the road and discovered a door cut into the rock face. Kicking it open with a sturdy boot, I entered and moved into the tunnels that linked up on the southern overlook. Indeed, there were supplies stacked in neat piles on pallets but I ignored these for now. I was searching for labs first. Hopefully some held enough raw chemicals I could use to improvise a workable substitute for my Nox Gas.

 

[King Shark]

“Fucking Arbiter-be-damned-son-of-a-bitch!” roared Bakugo, his hand instinctively finding his side.

Above the left hip bone and it hadn’t hit anything vital. His training from the Academy took over, and Bakugo found himself feeling out his wounds. It felt like a puncture, but everything had happened so quickly - the young hero took a knee and before he felt his bodily situation out any further, the ash-blonde knew that he needed to appraise his surroundings. ...he listened for any indication of movement. Anything that may tell him that his ‘quarry’ was still there.

...the moments ticked on without mark, silent in their trek towards the day seven finish line. No sound around him seemed untoward, though, his trigger finger was itchy and his hand guided his gun towards every rustle...initially.

Then his senses guided his mind back towards rationality. There were things to deal with here, first. He turned his head downward only to feel the nuisance of the collar constraining his chin’s range of motion. Katsuki’s nostrils flared, momentarily, then he repositioned himself so that his torso was more readily apparent.

A large gash presented itself above his hip bone - he’d expected this much, but hated to see it in flesh and blood. Despite the obsidian of his tank top threatening to swallow up all of the color of his injury in the night, Bakugo could feel the blood soaking the fabric of his shirt around the outskirts of the tear marring its integrity.

I’m not the only dangerous person here.

The realization had hit him before this moment. It had, in fact, hit him around the same time the knife had carved him up like a holiday turkey. Despite the dark of the night, the spitfire managed to feel his way up to his other wound - this one far more shallow - where he felt along the depth of it. The line of the wound traced past the initial stab and painted a butcher’s line up his side and up towards his chest.

A lot of vital organs up there…

Bakugo felt his luck in that moment.

This...this was a reality check. Everything had seemed a game until now, but in this moment his mortality was presented before him as plain as the wound in his torso.

Katsuki rocked back onto his haunches and looked around, some of his bravado fading, and found that his scouter was locking onto nothing. That proved a small comfort, however. The skirmish he’d just experienced had been more than just disquieting in that it proved that his device was fallible. It had also proved that he was at least as fallible.

Sitting there in the dark and in the silence of the night, the young man felt for one of the first times of his life every bit of his youth, inexperience, and vulnerability. His pack - his confidence had made it seem an afterthought to start - cast a hook into him and tugged his attention, now, and beckoning to the call Bakugo felt around in its depths to find out what tools he had available to him.

Bottles of water. Several of them, in fact. He pulled out one, and spilled a quarter of it onto his wound...then, considering, he poured out the rest of its first half. He was not mindful of the water spilling into his lap.

Meals Ready to Eat. ...he found that, looking at them, he was not taking in their contents or descriptions. In fact, he was not hungry. He was numb.

A compass - unnecessary given the circumstances of his arsenal, though, he was wary now of relying on the scouter too heavily.

And a map. Referencing the scouter, he occupied himself momentarily with using the end of a twig dipped in his opponent’s purple blood from the ground nearby to dab marks on the canvas detailing what he knew.

When it was all over, Bakugo drew a breath and realized that the night had progressed but little and that his physical inventory had only occupied his mind for the duration of a small portion of his evening. He found, as well, that drawing that breath tugged hard at the wound in his side, and that it would certainly need to be attended to. ...back in the Academy, there had been people for that. Even back in the Agency, he’d have been able to berate Midoriya into attending to his wounds. Here, however, there were no attendants. Only the unnerving sounds of the late night about him accompanied Katsuki here.

He cast his thoughts towards loneliness now. Back on Erde Nona, civilization was all about him. Even his hole in the wall of a detective agency provided some semblance of humanity. Midoriya, nuisance though he may be, was at least a presence.

Now there was nothing. Cricket chirps.

Behind him, he heard the quiet lapping of water and then felt the churning of his bowels beneath the stab wound he’d cleaned out. He tried to use his scouter in the darkness, and with the absence of life around him, Bakugo found it was useless.

Then, in the silence of the night, behind a bush and without company, Bakugo relieved himself and felt his humanity all at the same time.

“...AUGH! That fucking hurts!”

...he finished his business, and felt around in the bushes for his gun. The Chicago Typewriter...CT.

“CT, he murmured, clutching at his bloody side, and pulling himself away from the scent of his bowel movement. “Let’s turn the page. ...we HAVE to turn the page.”

 

[Ganondorf]

Gengar grumbled to himself as he bobbed along the ground, feet occasionally dipping into the blades of grass. A damn human got the drop on him so easily? He rubbed his head where the glass bottle had broken against him. It still throbbed a little. Plus the burns provided a powerful reminder of his roll in the fire. He was the one who was supposed to surprise other people, not the other way around!

And the damn collar! It encircled his entire body just beneath his mouth, since he didn’t have a separate head and body like so many other creatures. There was an itch right beneath it, and he couldn’t reach it! Gengar threw his bag on the ground and collapsed, slumped. This was bullshit! This was not how he pictured things would start for him here! He-

That’s enough!

Gengar snapped out of his tantrum, sobered suddenly from a voice from the past. An old memory, triggered as he lost his temper, attached to feelings of frustration and loss of control. A memory he could never forget.

---

Agatha crossed her arms, a deep frown etched into her aging features. Grey had started to creep into the hair around her temples, and creases in her face had started to stay in place whether she was scowling or not. A pokeball was clutched in one hand, an accusatory finger pointed at him with the other.

He looked across the arena. A white, elongated pokeball had been imprinted into the wooden surface, outlining the area the Pokemon could battle in. A bald man with a moustache stood on the other side, his arms crossed. A Rapidash stood nearby him, molten flames waving down its neck.

He felt... hot. Burned. He looked at his disembodied hands. They were black from fire.

“Haunter,” she said, her voice stern. “What did you do wrong?”

Haunter lifted himself off the ground. “I lost.”

Agatha slapped her face. “Yes, but that’s not what you did wrong!”

“I... huh?”

“Good match, Agatha!” Blaine called from the other side of the ring. The Rapidash vanished in a beam of red light, returning to its pokeball.

Agatha gave him a half-hearted wave to acknowledge him and left the stadium. “Come on, let’s go!”

As they left the build, Agatha started talking again. “You lost your temper, Haunter. It’s as plain as that.”

Haunter sharpened his features. “I was losing! The Rapidash was running circles around me! What was I supposed to do?!”

Agatha’s eyes narrowed even further and she leaned in close. “That’s enough. When you’re in that position, when things aren’t going your way, when it looks like there’s no chance for victory... do you know the only thing that can save you?”

“What?”

“Composure. Keeping yourself calm. Taking the mad thoughts swirling in your head and forcing them to behave. Once your emotions take over, when they start calling the shots... you’re done. You didn’t lose when that Rapidash used that final Fire Spin on you. You lost when you abandoned your nerve, which was long before that last attack. Do you understand?”

Haunter looked at the ground, replaying the battle in his head. Truly, Agatha was right. “But the Rapidash overwhelmed me!”

“Maybe physically. But you are my Pokemon. And that means you’ll be a winner. And to be a winner, you need to be strong mentally as well. No matter the circumstances, I don’t care how dire or hopeless, you will be in command of yourself. Win or lose. Do I make myself clear?”

---

Gengar sat up, banishing the frustrations plaguing his mind. “Yes, Agatha.”

The ghost Pokemon picked up his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and floated into the air again.

This time, he was ready for whatever came his way.

 

[Rebecca Chambers]

Pathfinder sat up. He’d powered on to find himself lying in the midst of a cluster of wildflowers, at least a dozen clumps of the fragrant blooming weeds crushed beneath the considerable weight of his metal body. His single orange optic turned upward with a curious gleam, pausing to admire the curtain of twinkling stars glittering high overhead, before lowering to survey his immediate surroundings.

All was still and dark, the chittering of night insects creating a peaceful thrum in the somewhat damp night air. Somewhere to his immediate right, Pathfinder could distinctly make out the steady sweep and crash of what sounded like ocean waves, though all he could see of the sea itself was courtesy of the pale moonlight shimmering across it.

Hmm. Pathfinder leaned forward and abruptly found himself peering down from the rocky, grass-littered cliff he was perched upon, staring at the steep drop to the ocean below. Even though he could not smell the salt on the wind, he could feel the tingle of briny water already prickling at his joints— an uncomfortably bracing sensation.

The MRVN pulled himself into a standing position with a clunking whir of his servos, his round head craning this way and that, scouting for hostiles.

“What an exciting arena!” Pathfinder remarked aloud to himself, his synthetic voice nearly swallowed up by the roaring of the ocean below. And a fairly large arena, too, if the midnight blue plain of grass stretching over the horizon was any indication. He couldn’t wait to explore it further, perhaps scale those distant slopes capped with what looked like snow with his grapple. He could probably pull off some superb shots from up there, if equipped with the right firearm...

But first, he needed to see what supplies he’d been given. With altogether far too much eagerness for someone participating in a bloody battle royale, Pathfinder located his duffel bag settled amongst the swaying wildflowers, a colony of beetles crawling across it. Swiping the black-shelled insects away with fumbling metal digits, Pathfinder yoinked the bag’s zipper open and, without further ado, reached inside to grasp his destiny.

Pathfinder paused. His hands had come into contact with something… long and cylindrical, almost like a metal pole. The MRVN’s head tilted to the side, a brilliant white question mark flashing on the gray background of his chest screen, a few others flickering around it. What was this thing…?

After some awkward maneuvering and with no small amount of sheer gumption, Pathfinder was finally able to extract his first weapon from his bag. It appeared to be a cylindrical contraption, neatly folded up into two connected pieces. With a flick of his wrist, the metal contraption snapped outward— the two folded pieces sliding against each other and fitting securely together with a sharp clink!

A bit puzzled, Pathfinder held the suddenly full-length staff aloft, admiring the shiny green coloring and the crescent-shaped arms mounted on one end. A few elastic strings hung loosely from the arms, a little pouch dangling at the end… for ammo, no doubt!

“This is cool,” chirped the MRVN, a sunny yellow smiley face appearing on his screen. “I can kill my enemies with this.”

Head bobbing to himself in a satisfied nod, Pathfinder set the staff aside on the grass, excited to see what he would find next inside his supply bag. After a few seconds of rustling through various vittles and water bottles, he’d found several more useful things: a map—a bright red ‘x’ marking his location on the island—and a compass. All good things if he hoped to find his way around the arena, for sure, but nothing else he could kill with.

Still, Pathfinder was pleased with his findings. So pleased, in fact, that he almost didn’t notice the final little gift tucked away at the very bottom of the duffel, deftly hidden behind a pile of food he couldn’t eat and bottled water he couldn’t drink.

With a curious gleam in his lone optic, Pathfinder pulled a small object out from the lip of his supply bag, turning it over in his hands. It was sleek, cold, and constructed of solid metal, painted all in shiny sapphire blue and silver. When he looked at it from the right angle in the pale moonlight, it almost looked like… a model spaceship?

Much to Pathfinder’s delight, the toy spaceship flew out from his hands with a phwoom of its tiny thrusters almost as soon as he’d picked it up. It hovered in the air a short distance away, a steady (and tiny) hum emanating from it. Suddenly, it occurred to Pathfinder that he wasn’t looking at a toy spaceship, but his very own drone!

Path sprang up onto the tips of his feet, nearly incandescent with joy as he peered up at his new friend. It was because of this keen attention that he was quick to notice when a small note fluttered down like an autumn leaf, having been secured to the miniature spaceship’s hull by a thin strip of tape.

The robot effortlessly caught the note in mid-air, the paper crinkling in his grip. “Whoa there, friend! What’s this?”

Scanning the note only took about five seconds. Pathfinder looked up, a starry-eyed emoticon flickering to life on his screen (a rare sight indeed), and clasped his metal digits together in simple happiness.

“You’re here to watch me win the game?” he asked, overjoyed. “Well then, you’re in luck! We are going to have so much fun together, friend. Let’s go fight some enemies!”

And with that, Path turned—swiping up his duffel as he went—and glanced around, trying to settle on a location to travel in. The MRVN supposed he could travel further along the coastline, though the sand might get into his joints and gum them up. Surely he would run into some other fighters along the way… he really hoped so!

Shooting a quick thumbs up at the drone hovering in his periphery, Pathfinder picked up his other special weapon and held it like a particularly colorful walking stick. With not much else to do and a cheerful disposition, he set off along the rocky outcropping overlooking the sea, looking for trouble...

 

[The Man in Red]

Face-off
#008 Cell vs #002 Karl Jak​

Duffel bag slung over one shoulder, the executive producer made his way along at a brisk, but fairly sedate pace compared to some others in their travels across the island. It was dark out, and the territory unfamiliar; no need to go rushing about like a crazy man just yet.

The environs about were swampy, even as he left the limits of one of the many small cities dotted about the island behind him. The perfect sort of place to render an ambush, as he knew all too well. That sort of thing was entirely too common in games like these, after all, wasn’t it?

Of course it was.

That was why, when that uncomfortable little prickling feeling of “you’re being watched” made the hairs on his neck stand on end, he could only offer a faint smirk and look around cooly through the haze of too-damn-early-morning swampy gloom and humidity.

A rustling among slimy vegetation here. An errant crack of displaced tree limbs and twigs there. The frightened noise of some disturbed swamp critter as it scurried away.

The tell-tale splotch-plop of something with two legs carefully slinking through the muck.

“Not being all that subtle as you could be, you know,” he said offhandedly, breaking the mostly-silence of only pleasant swamp sounds. “You could just call off the whole sneaking around and backstabbing thing, and we could have this little dance of ours face to face.” He snickered at his comment, the joke being rather intentional.

In response, there was a hissing snarl, and the muck exploded around him as something lunged at him in a blur of green wings and brown muck. Something sharp lashed and stabbed at him, finding only empty air rather than his tender flesh as the purple-suited executive deftly leaped and hopped back and away with a remarkable grace.

The green insectoid monstrosity leered across the swamp at Karl, brandishing a monstrous green polearm weapon in both hands. Behind him, his tail angrily thrashed about. “You’re very spry for some suit-wearing fancy man.”

“I only wear the suit because it makes me look good,” Karl said offhandedly. “Don’t let that make you think I’m just another pretty face.”

With a wordless snarl, Cell lunged forward again, lashing out with a wide arc from the gleaming weapon. It failed to connect with Karl, but did serve to cleanly bisect a tree in its path. The bio-android pursued, slashing and hacking away with narrow misses each time, forcing the executive to continuously backpedal and remain on the defensive.

The lazy smirk of amusement on his face belied the effectiveness of his assault, however.

It wasn’t until a final lunge and overhead strike with the crescent blade that there was any change. The blade of the weapon stuck in the muddy ground, Karl lightly darted in, and one hand curled into a loose fist before delivering a quick jab to the green bug’s midsection. A sound like cracking glass sounded, along with a noise of pain not unlike a goose being kicked through a field goal, as the horrific bug was sent sprawling away.

Karl lightly hopped in place, shaking his hands out with a smirk, before he quickly pursued, now taking his chance to go on the offense. With an almost practiced ease, he shot forward with a quick flurry of punches here, a swing kick there, a ducking uppercut, a push kick; a swift, never-ending onslaught to keep pushing the bug back. Many more glancing blows and hits than he had landed in return, but nothing substantial.

At least until the bug hissed in defiance and jumped -- rather high. He cleared the swamp and the lowest branches, vanishing among the murky treetops, before plopping back down some half dozen yards away with a wet splatch in the muck. “It seems I have...underestimated you…” he hissed. “Trying to hunt like you were just some...worthless normal human…”

“I’m anything but normal, precious,” Karl snickered, before breaking into a brisk run toward his foe.

“As I can now see.”

Cell grasped the green dragon with his tail, and in a blur brought both hands up to either side of his face, fingers splayed out wide. His beak did its best approximation of a sly grin, before he shouted, “SOLAR FLARE!”

For an instant, the night turned to bright daylight right in the producer’s face, earning a very undignified shout of surprise as he was stricken with a sudden lack of sight.

The immediately following motion was several wet, sucking sounds of stumbling through the swampy muck, before a sickening crunch of impact, and a mangled yelp from Cell in time with a wet snrkcht of something sharp crunching through plastic.

When the blinding glare faded, Karl was blinking his eyes furiously against the spots in his vision, while holding onto Cell’s tail with one arm. It had torn through his suit, just barely missing piercing him square in the chest. “Penetration on the first date? How bold,” he remarked. His other arm had ripped a bizarre little necklace from somewhere, jamming the drill-like trinket on it into the bio-terror’s shoulder.

It was barely more than a pocket knife, and seemed far more the executive’s own strength than any promise it held as a weapon, but it was enough to draw blood from the great ugly bug.

With an angry flail of the polearm in his hands, Cell forced his foe to release him and jump back. “I see now...you’re going to make a fine target, indeed,” he hissed. A quick grunt and he thrust his hand forward, releasing a loose scattering of ki bolts as he leaped back in several short quick hops, before turning to race away into the gloom.

Karl quickly battered away the incoming ki blasts, responding with a more substantial beam of his own to give chase to the monster. It tore apart a tree, the ensuing explosion darkening the gloom even further. When it cleared, he was alone again.

“These competitions just draw in all kinds of freaks.”

”Results”

20 Contestants Remain​

Karl Jak has had his suit torn and mangled, and a few minor bruises from the encounter. (Story Injury)
Cell has sustained an even more damaged ego (Story Injury) and a bloodied shoulder (Story Injury).

Karl Jak has used 1 application of Focus.

Karl Jak has the Core Drill.
Cell has the Green Dragon.

Karl Jak is now on an 8-hour cooldown where they cannot engage in another Face-Off. This cooldown is negated if they move from theri current space or PM me to waive it.

 

[The Man in Red]

Face-off
#013 Sigma vs #020 Izuku Midoriya​

Past the treeline and onward. Izuku Midoriya left behind one beach only to find his way onto another one. This one seemed to be part of a city of some kind, judging by the large docks and pier jutting out into the water.

But what had actually drawn him out here was something in the water, gleaming among the mud next to one of the pier’s legs. It stared back at him, quite literally, as he looked down at it. All scorched metal and burned wood ashes, but the eyes of it -- those huge, wide, gaping eyes -- remained untouched and undamaged as they leered back up at him.

How did something like that get down there?

In his fascination over such an oddity, the young lad was completely unaware of the hulking figure that had come upon him. Right up until the last moment, when the creaking and straining wood of the pier announced it just in time for the huge shadow to spread over him.

“A bit late to be out wandering around the water, isn’t it, boy?” a sinister voice queried, before there was a crackling of green light and an impact like a piledriver.

Only a reflexive dive to one side, with a panicked yelp, saved Izuku from being clobbered as a fist the size of his torso tore through the wooden planks like tissue paper. The oversized mitt wrenched itself free as its owner stomped after the youth with a crazed grin on his face. “Afraid and running away, just like a human should be,” he spat.

Midoriya scrambled back to his feet, staring at the colossal...man? with wide eyes as he stalked toward him. The wooden planks of the pier squeaked under every step he took, green lightning arcing and flashing out from him in crackling sparks. Both hands tightened into fists and a determined look crossed his face. “I’m not afraid,” he spoke, in a surprisingly strong voice, even though it shook slightly.

“No?” the towering behemoth questioned, cocking his head to the side. “Huh...then you must be even stupider than you look.” He cracked a grin and lunged forward with such speed he was little more than a blur, and his colossal fist nearly took Midoriya’s head off.

A quick duck and roll to one side, leaving the youth scrambling, saved him from the blow. He quickly regained his feet in time to bring both hands up and across his torso to block a savage backhanded strike from his opponent’s other arm, which sent him skidding down the pier, kicking up a trail of splinters in his wake and earning a grimace from him. His arms already felt numb, as did his legs. What was this guy?

He scarcely had a moment to regain his wits or breath, as the machine-gun stomp of the abrasive giant stormed toward him. A massive boot crashed down through the wooden boards, even as Midoriya staggered aside. He stepped forward and throw a punch with all he could muster, only to have it whiff entirely as the huge brute jerked aside with an almost lazy precision. He lunged out with a grasping hand, but the youth scrambled back and leaped up, landing on the extended limb and dashing up to deliver a swift roundhouse to the bald titan’s dome.

There was a rather comical sound like a bell being struck, and then Midoriya had to jump back and away to evage a clumsy swipe of one hand. Sigma cackled as he lumbered forward after him. “I guess you’re not the average human after all. Too bad. This might have been less painful.” And he rocketed forward, lifting both hands over his head and bringing them down in a sledgehammer blow.

The pier practically exploded as an entire section of it ceased to exist, splinters and nails and chunks of wood raining down everywhere. Izuku was left on his back, coughing weakly at the haze in the air. He had managed to avoid the direct blow, somehow...but he was positive that would have been more than just an ache in his head if he’d been hit.

As Sigma loomed out of the haze, crashing down from leaping across the newly-created gap in the pier, Midoriya clenched his fists. “That’s...enough!” He grit his teeth and rolled back onto his shoulders, launching up into a kick with both legs as the commander reploid lunged in at him.

A hollow metallic clang sounded as he struck home squarely in his foe’s chest. He felt momentary relief; a hit like that he was sure would take the wind out of the sails of even someone this big.

His relief turned to icy panic when he felt one of those monstrous mitts closed around both his ankles. “Stronger than you look, too,” he snarled, before proceeding to wrench the boy downward and smash him into the pier. The impact sent up a shower of splinters and loosened nails, leaving a perfect imprint of Izuku Midoriya’s entire silhouette in the wood even as he comically bounced back up from the sheer force...and a colossal boot struck him in the side with a sickening cra-crunch as he went flying down the pier, bouncing and flopping along until hitting a small shed near to the end, turning it into a pulverized wreck of wood.

“Heh… What a waste. All that potential, given to a human.” The hulking brute bellowed a mocking laugh to the stars, before turning to stomp away back toward the city.

”Results”

20 Contestants Remain​

Sigma has some minor scuffing and dents from being battered by Midoriya. (Story Injury)
Izuku Midoriya has heavily bruised both arms (Story Injury) and sustained a few cracked ribs from being used as a football. (Minor Injury)

 

[Masahir N'air]

Revenant startled into consciousness with a frustrated growling snarl. Where was he? How long had he been out for? These damn skinsuits and their tedious procedures, all for the simple right to end lives. The crimson simulacrum leered forward, his ghastly golden glowing eyes splashed the ground between his legs with a dim light. A stream babbled nearby. His hand shot up to catch the weight that clanked against his neck. A collar? Really? He jolted to his feet, glowering around for his bearings as he fingered the shape of his new found and contested 'accessory'.

The clearing around him was dark, nearly pitch black. Again he snarled, pacing around the small knoll of grass he found himself at, like a wolf cornered in a canyon. He had underestimated just how far the walking meatbags in charge of the event would go in order to completely equalize this fiasco, and now he lacked the rather basic ability to see through the shadows of this moonless night. He made himself a promise in that moment, he'd take an unsettling amount of pleasure from rending this Man in Red bastard limb. from. limb. Slowly, and painfully. Revenant would give his host a good damn reason to double think ever humiliating him like this again.

"You want a performance?! I've done this millions of times. I'll shut you up real good." He spat, under his breath.

He looked up, heavy clouds blotting out the limited starlight available to navigate with, before his dangerous eyes darted to the ground. A black duffle bag was haphazardly laying in a clump of tall grass, smashing the miserable plants flat against the ground. Hmm... just like old times working with the Syndicate, he mused- except this bag wasn't emblazoned with the logo and name of his Frankenstein: Hammond Robotics. Hopefully he'd find his favorite handgun and a few cases of ammo- or any assortment of useful royale gear.

If he was pleasantly surprised by this find, he did very little to display it outside of stalking over to inspect it. His hefty robotic frame prowled with the unprecedented grace of a big cat. He cast one more look around the clearing, on edge for any and all sounds that could alert him to the environment. Content that he wasn't going to be imminently ambushed he yanked the zipper to the bag open. On top was nothing more than obnoxiously immediate skinsuit provisions- he tossed them to the side with little regard. "Useless," he growled, before his sour tone twisted into a dry chuckle. "Pathetic skinsuits won't survive more than a few days."

Soon his cold hands groped something hard and just as metallic as his own dead digits. A detached curiosity softened the burning glow of his gaze as he pulled the object out of the duffle bag, brushing aside the other frivolous garbage that laid on top of it. It was made of black metal, and coated with a slick, hydrophobic layer. Whatever this was, he'd need more light and cover to fully explore it. With a whirring grunt he stuffed his supplies back into the bag and proceeded towards the gurgling sounds of water nearby.

Standing on the embankment, he tore each of the MREs open. The salty, preserved aroma brought flashes of countless past lives to the forefront of his mind, back when he too wore a suit of flesh and thought that he needed to eat and drink and shave, lives he once held as dearly as a contract killer could in the field. His burnished grey fingers plucked the flameless heaters from each meal, careful to keep them away from the stream's edge before stowing them back into his pack. The food itself was turned loose into the shallow river so it couldn't be salvaged. Last thing he was willing to do was leave something useful behind for one of these repulsive skinsuits to survive with. Now it was time to push forward and see if he could get his claws on a RE-45 or even a Wingman. If not... well, he was excellent at manually pulling his prey apart; muscle by muscle.

Time to meet some new friends.