Day 1, Phase 2

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The Man in Red

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Day 1, Phase 2
Morning Phase: 0600 to 1200​


As the clock ticked down its final moments of the game’s first phase and finally struck six o’clock, the intercoms again crackled to life with an audible hiss of static. “Gooooood morning, contestants!” The voice that blared out over the island-wide intercoms this time was a deep and reverberating basso rumble, not at all the musical chime of the masked host. “Mister Brash here, on behalf of our host to give everyone a rousing wake-up call! And make sure you’re ready to greet the day!” The speaker laughed uproariously. “And to announce that...every one of you down there managed to make it to see the sunrise. Nobody died.”

At that, the man behind the mic turned in his seat to quickly slap a few buttons on his console. There was the canned sound effect of a crowd booing echoing behind his words, through the comms.

“What a shame, what a shame. No progress yet toward a clear winner for this game, in spite of all those fights!” He made a loud ‘tsk tsk’ sound, before forging right ahead. “But regardless of any of that! Let’s get an update on our ongoing island-wide chaos!” Quickly leafing through a sheaf of papers before him, Mister Brash cleared his throat. ”Starting at high noon, the following spaces on your map will become dead zones, so if you don’t wanna get dead real fast, steer clear of these places:

D-1!
A-4!
N-6!
B-9!
G-14!”

“And following that, there will be a new round of danger zones cropping up too! They won’t kill you, but you’re gonna have a real bad time if you’re still in one of these places come noon-time:

E-1!
F-1!
D-2!
B-3!
A-5!
A-6!
N-8!
M-13!”


Brash slammed both hands down on the desk before him, standing up out of his seat. ”And finally, we have a special treat for you all! When the clock strikes noon, we’ll be dropping a special package into the city at L-3! A lovely little...easter egg, if you will. If you want to go there, your lovely little collars will offer you a two-way trip there and back. This one is sure to be a real treat for whoever gets their hands on it, so put up a good fight over it!”


NPC Movement Updates

Mid-Boss remains unrevealed, shuffling around out there somewhere...
Cell stalks off into the swamp, cursing his poor luck thus far and biding his time until he can find easier prey. He peers at a road leading into a city, but disregards it in favor of being too obvious.
Agent HUNK remains unrevealed, shuffling around out there somewhere...
Sigma lumbers back into the city, ego soaring after his victory. He leaves a ruined trail through the streets as he makes his way through, headed for the roads leading out.
Darth Vader remains unrevealed, shuffling around out there somewhere...
King remains unrevealed, shuffling around out there somewhere...


Bulletins and Updates
  • Make sure to keep track of the above listed Danger Zones and Dead Zones. They aren’t named just for show! The next phase begins at 12:00 Noon, EST tomorrow, November 12 and the above listed zones will change and go live.
  • At the same time of the next phase starting tomorrow, the first Easter Egg special event will be going live.
    • You enter this event by just stating your intent to do so in your usual movement/update messages.
    • If you’re in a partnership or team, all parties involved must state intent to go, or else only the ones who do will be present.
    • Once you state intent to participate, you cannot back out, just as with any other moves.
    • Only your current partner/team will be on your side. Anyone else you may want to team up with, but have not yet done so, will still be competing against you as normal.
 
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The Man in Red

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? ? ?
#010 Weiss​


Situated on the coast, Weiss seemed...to still be asleep from the unexpected transition to the island, even the multitude of announcements failing to awaken her.

What did serve to awaken her, however, was the sudden shift in the weather. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled in the sky, as thick sheets of rain began to sweep in from off the coast. Farther out to sea, the world began to turn grayscale, static flickering through the air and garbled corruptions of waves glitching to and fro.

The waves on the beach rose up in gray, steaming froth as they broke over the sand.

Weiss was broken from her slumber by a strike of lightning, impacting just feet from her. It sent her reeling and rolling in shock and surprise, only for a second bolt to strike quite literally at her feet. The force of it sent her flying, into a rocky outcropping on the beach with a resounding crunch. She sagged down against it, even as another bolt struck, shocking and searing the huntress to her core. The chaos of it all split the stone apart and sent a cascading avalanche down atop her.

It was lucky for her there were tunnels to be found within the rock, enough she could crawl away and seek shelter from the sudden storm. Light shone ahead, of a tunnel further inland and away from the wrath of nature gone wrong at the beach.


20 Contestants Remain

Weiss didn’t escape from a Danger zone in time.

Weiss has sustained acute electrical burns and nerve damage over most of her body (Major Injury) as well as several fractured ribs (Minor Injury) and a broken left arm (Major Injury).
 

The Man in Red

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Face-off
#015 Darth Vader vs #011 Dr. Caustic​


As he picked his way through the tunnels within the hidden bunker. There were ample supplies here, of course, but nothing that would suit his needs…

A sudden sense of dread fell upon him, making him flinch hard enough to overturn a vacuum-sealed box of rations. He whirled around toward the doorway he had come through, staring at it as if it might suddenly come to life and attack him. When it did not, he slowly crept his way through the doorway and out into the larger observation room. The concealed windows there looking down over the roads leading outside. What he saw made his blood run cold again: a lone figure, clad entirely in black, marching slowly but steadily along the road.

Moments later, the radio in his possession crackled to life. ”It seems you have more company, Doctor. Very...interesting company, as well. Contestant number fifteen, Darth Vader. This is not an encounter I suspect you could win, in this...cramped environment. A powerful telekinetic and telepath, as well as a superb duelist and swordsman, with a nigh-invulnerability to pain and most of his fleshy parts and biological matter burned and destroyed, replaced with machinery.”

Caustic hissed, snatching up the radio and his discarded duffel bag as he stormed toward the door. He quickly lumbered his way through the tunnels back toward the entrance, only to come to a screeching halt as he saw the door creaking open by itself.

And then the swirl of a black cape filled the doorway, as the imposing form of Darth Vader peered through. For several tense seconds there was silence, save for the heavy and mechanical breathing assistance of the Sith lord.

“Doctor Caustic.” The silence was finally broken as Vader stepped fully through the doorway. “I found reading your file at the...pre-game facilities to be most enlightening.”

Caustic took a few shuffling paces back, eyes darting around to search out anything of use in this scenario. “Is that so? Unfortunately I find myself much less informed about you…” He just needed something to make an opening of a few seconds!

“I have...an offer to make.” Vader slowly extended a hand, palm up. “Work with me, for the duration of this game. Only one may stand as winner at the end, of course...” He clenched his outstretched hand into a fist. “...but there are many other competitors who must be eliminated before that point.”

Caustic weighed his options in silence for a long minute, staring at the Sith Lord. His eyes flicked to the doorway beyond him, to anything in the room which could possibly be used, down to the radio in his hands. Finally, he spoke up, his voice faintly hoarse. “...very well, then. A short-term alliance of...convenience?”

“A very succinct way of putting it, doctor.” Vader slowly lowered his arm.


20 Contestants Remain

The enemy of my enemy...dies second.
 
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Arno Timber

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The Hunter chuckled quietly. The similarity to the Apex Games was hard to miss. It had been mentioned that weaponry would be supplied, rather than acquired throughout their time on the island. They missed the heft of the Kraber at their back, that vague sense of security their weapons afforded them. Bloodhound turned to regard the vehicle that sat at their side. Vehicles were certainly a new aspect to be considered. The weapon on the rear insinuated that this was intended for more than one passenger. Maybe an ally would be worth finding..

Bloodhound shook their head and hit their helmet a couple of times.

“No time for pondering.”

They hopped into the seat of the vehicle. Giving the area around them a cursory glance, they spotted the outskirts of a town across the river before them. Towns usually meant action and weapons, at least in their experience in the Games. The engine roared into life and the hunter encroached on the city.

Concrete behemoths pierced the skyline, dwarfing the Hunter. The sun had barely crested above the town, leaving Bloodhound in shadow. Deciding against potentially alerting anyone who’d made their way into the town, Bloodhound abandoned the vehicle on the outskirts of the city. Steeling their resolve, Bloodhound attached the second provided weapon to their belt and made their way to the town on foot.

They skulked through the deserted town, keeping to the sides of buildings to obscure their silhouette. It was relatively dark, the sun having barely lit anything within. There was an odd stillness to the town, only the wind coursing through the alleyways and streets gave a vague sense of life to the area. Nigh silent, Bloodhound turned corner after corner, searching for any sign of another contestant or a discarded weapon.. Anything to use in the coming days.

Nothing. A fruitless excursion. Bloodhound huffed a sigh before making their way back to the Warthog.

“Perhaps the road east will lead to more plentiful hunting grounds..”
 

Shallan Davar

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The Burning yellow face starts to beat down on us, precious, its cruel light is a pain behind our eyeses. The beasts of night are gone to sleep and the birdses of the morning are singing their songs. We considers catching one for a moment, precious, something to crunch, something to soothe our aching teeth. But we have not the time, Precious… no time! we must find shelter, yes! A new hole to wait out the angry face’s path…

We considers for a moment the city. precious. Lots of corners, lots of hidden holes where the light won’t finds us… but we decides against it. That’s where the others will go, we knows it. That is how we gets caught precious! We cannot creeps upon them sleeping with these cursed, tricksey humming eyes watching us! They will gives us away! They follows us everywhere with their beepings and their whirrings!

We snarls and grabs a rock. We chucks it at one of the humming eyes, but it floats away from us without a squawk. We scrambles across the stones with more fury, but we cannot out runs them with their tricksey wings! He hisses and spits at them, but they will not be scared either… We needs to escape their eyes… the precious… we needs the precious! We slips as the rocks under us crumbles away, our eyes widens as we lose our grip on the stones and rolls down the slopes. We lands in a ball, and lays there for a moment… we weeps… weeps for the precious… we needs it…

No… we will finds it, precious… we will finds Bagginses and we will wring his filthy, thieving neck, precious! We will! Patience, precious… we must have patience! They will not finds us here in this little crevice, no they won’t! now we will finds a place to sleep… a safe place! Then when the others is sleeping, then we shall go hunting… yes….
 

King Shark

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Dawn had broken. By the fresh morning light Bakugo marked his map with the announced danger zones, taking care with each one to ensure that he didn’t mark the wrong location, since his life literally depended on it. Subsequently he scanned the visor of his scouter for the fresh locations of the other combatants, which he marked in turn on his map as well. Seeing things in this perspective gave him an insight into how people...and other things, apparently, given whatever the Hell that thing that stabbed him in the night was...were moving across the map.

In addition there were several locations with two blips on a single tile. The detective in him deduced that one of two things could be happening in an instance like that: a fight, or an alliance. Fights were the obvious preference - the idea of four teams of two seemed suddenly daunting given his fresh perspective after the night’s harrowing adventure. He’d thought this would be a cake walk, and yet here he was six hours in and already wounded. Not a great start.

Bakugo stymied the faucet of frustration and doubt that threatened to spill forth before it started, however, and rolled up his map which he stashed in his olive drab pack. Kneeling over the pack, he selected a simple MRE with crackers, plain deli meats, cheese, and a single piece of chocolate which would serve him well enough for breakfast, and then tucked into it. As he was eating he thought with some longing about hot pancakes, syrup, and butter. Not for the first time he wondered if the decision he’d made to enter this competition was wise. Moreover, he wondered if he would ever have another opportunity to eat a heaping stack of flapjacks. The thought made him salivate.

...the dissatisfying meal didn’t take long, though it did stifle the rumbles that his stomach had begun to emit. He chased his breakfast with a half bottle of water, careful to ration, and then packed away his suppliers save for his scouter and his tommy gun. Neither of those items would be far from his grasp during this competition, if he could help it.

Despite the misfortune he’d encountered in the wee hours of the morning; it was hard not to feel his mood brighten a bit with the sun breaking free of the treeline to the east, and with some food in his belly. Even the surly spitfire had some appreciation for a beautiful sunrise - and this one was breathtaking! A luminous orb casting its rays across a canvas of mottled blues, purples, oranges, and every hue found between. Bakugo’s ruby eyes took it in for what may have been a few moments too long, if his scouter hadn’t reassured him that he was alone here.

Then he set off North. He wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, but there was some gnawing flame in his chest that told him that he had to survive, and that something to the North would help him do that. He had no idea what it was, but he was not one to ignore a gut feeling - even a gut that had come as close to being carved out as his had.

Loping along the coast of the lake to his North began carrying him East, which he’d anticipated by means of his map. He crested the lip of a hill and found himself boots to pavement: a road carved a path North and transcended the lake in the form of a bridge.

Being out in the open on a bridge might’ve unnerved another competitor, but not this explosive blonde. The idea of being able to see any low-down stalkers coming from a football field away only served to reassure him.

In the morning light out on the open road with the dawn’s woes fading to the South-East, Bakugo was ready to churn out a story with his Chicago Typewriter, which rested comfortably against his shoulder as he walked.
 

Kefka Palazzo

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It had been some time since the game had began. He’d been walking for an hour or so, and had altogether dispensed with any awkward introductions or team proposals or other such nonsense; in the past it had always slowed him down, and these damned games never got him any closer to where he needed to be.

Best thing to do was to win with great dispatch, and perhaps the reward would get him closer to her.

He’d retained access to some of his dark power, but was still nowhere near as strong as he’d been when he began preparing his offensive against a literal god. But he grew tired, and somehow, a mistake had thrust him into yet another reality. He was lost.

Truly lost.

He knew his mission was all but impossible. But he walked, crunching over dirt and leaves along a bubbling river, pausing in the shade to take a seat on a rock and filter through the weaponry he’d been given at the outset.

A war hammer, which seemed – to be generous – a little less useful than his scythe, but the little bag of something else, that seemed far more interesting.

Shiny Space Rocks!

From Space!


Magus opened the little bag and gazed inside. The little stones seemed neither impressive nor mundane, and the rest of the description didn’t much make sense to him. The archmage decided to tuck the stones away in a breast pocket, hefting the ridiculous hammer before carrying on into the game.

His buzz, as Maelcum called it, had all but faded. He felt hot, as he always did since losing the bulk of his strength, but the icy kiss of magic was returning to him. Flowing outward from his beating heart to his extremities, easing the discomfort from inside out.

Such strange, twisted physiology. Had he adapted to desiring the cold because of the chill of his magic, or had his body simply began generating a tremendous amount of heat to compensate and hadn’t yet learned how to stop?

Either way, it was a problem he’d suffered with for over a year now, and only the coldest regions or freezers provided the proper respite. Every day became easier, but he’d been so close…

Setbacks marked his path. Every step, it seemed. This would be no different. Perhaps he could dictate his prize, as these death games sometimes went. Yes, perhaps he’d find a lead. And if not, money was useful. If a bit… primitive.

“Killing for sport, then.”

Also a bit primitive. But fun, in the right context. Perhaps he needed more of that.
 
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Dried leaves crackled underfoot as The Prisoner made its way across the island. Blue-skinned hands tugged at the steel band crossing its chest, strategically placed to ensure any explosion would eradicate the corpse-candle's heart. Likely a solution designed to accommodate for the beings lack of a neck.

Where exactly was it going? The teal hue to its flame left no doubt that The Prisoner, itself, had no idea. Perhaps after its disappointing night, it just felt the need to do something; anything to distract itself from its plight. Not only had its plans for the mask literally gone up in flames, but… its pupil flattened as it directed its gaze to the ornate sword slung on its hip.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the first rays of the dawn sun brightened the sky, The Prisoner seemed to finally get over the mask fiasco, or, at the least, it stopped staring despondently at the ocean waves. Taking another look into the bag by its side, it took notice of a second item within its depths. Grey and gold, with a ruby set into the crossguard, the sword staring back at the undead was quite beautiful.

"Finally noticed me, huh?"

Head blazing yellow in shock, The Prisoner wheeled about, looking for the source of the voice. But… there was no one.

"Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Eye widening, the corpse-candle slowly peered back into the bag, some trepidation in its movements. In reply, the 'voice' spoke again, a psychic message that came from within The Prisoner's mind, rather than the world around it.

"Name's Anubis, and I'm about to be your best friend, pal!" The sword said, the mental image of a dog-headed man 'smiling' projecting itself into The Prisoner's mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fiery head shaking, The Prisoner broke free of its reminiscing and returned to its trek. Perhaps the sword truly would be of help to the undead, but it also, no doubt, had its own reasons for doing so. As did the being currently watching it from the early morning shadows nearby.
 

Fennec Shand

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Arms bruised all over again, Izuku Midoriya pressed on.

Wait… all over again? The purplish-blue tint of the skin on his, admittedly, still pretty formidable-looking triceps and biceps seemed familiar for some reason, but he couldn’t pinpoint why. He knew he’d been in some scrapes in the past -- whatever this super strength was running through his veins, he figured it had probably ended him up in between some rocks and some hard places. Hell, he even found himself wracking his brain, trying to connect the singular feeling that he had previously been altogether out of commission physically with a single memory. Nothing came to mind, though, even as he pulled a Deku and went through an itemized list of each and every physical beating or brawl he could remember. Some things were just… blank. Missing completely. He couldn’t explain it.

The green-haired boy slid to the floor, plopping down on his ass inside the abandoned kitchen of a nearby restaurant. He’d laid low for a while inside the wreckage of the shed this space man-looking villain had knocked him into, but once he’d managed to dig himself out of the broken planks and other rubble, getting inside seemed like the safest bet. A small diner nearby beckoned to him, called to him, not only because it was unassuming and quaint but also because it spoke to the singular goal he’d woken up to on this island.

Even amidst the reasonless battering of his mysterious enemy, Midoriya heard one singular word pinging throughout his head. He knew, deep in his soul, that despite his memory of the time before the island being incredibly spotty, he’d always been in pursuit of one thing.

To become the universe’s greatest gyro chef.

...or at least, he thought that’s what he was hearing. It made more sense than anything else he could come up with.

He scanned the interior of this diner’s kitchen, finding himself in awe of the various implementations, left behind long ago by whoever this establishment’s owner was. He pushed himself up off the ground and began to rifle through them, trying to see if anything in here was at all usable. He attended to his work with laser focus and the precision he knew, deep inside, that he’d always been admired for. There was a reason people looked to him, after all. He was determined, he was dedicated… and he was coordinated. He always had a plan. And even as he sifted through the mostly rusted utensils and short-circuited machines, a plan formulated in his head to complete the objective he’d been placed on this world for.

Naturally, the people on this island had populated it with skilled artisans of various types, and for Izuku Midoriya, the endgame was clear: he’d been given the perfect opportunity to reach for the skies and open up the island’s most hopping new restaurant. After all, people had to eat, right? Of course, that didn’t explain why the strange, hulking armored guy had just… well, tried to fucking murder him on sight. But this time, the feisty fifteen-year-old had been alive and awake enough to hear the announcement from the island’s mysterious overlords, so he knew that this was supposed to be some sort of competition, and he supposed that could rationalize the really mean -- and immensely odd -- hostility emanating from that guy.

He slammed his hand against the side of the metal preparation table before him, and the whole thing flew backwards, flipping like the son of the Arbiter himself had flipped it and smashing into the opposite wall. Deku scowled.

“No way that guy’s gotten far,” he muttered. “And nothing in here is going to work…”

He glanced around again, frustrated, as more utensils slid off the flipped table and clanged against the floor. “If I can’t hurry up and get this together… how am I supposed to call myself a chef? A good chef never gives up.” He pep talked himself, as he often did, through this bog of mystery, pacing back and forth around the abandoned kitchen and muttering incessantly. If anyone had walked in right now, they might’ve thought the scrawny -- but unnaturally toned -- kid here was absolutely bonkers. If Kacchan had walked in right now, he probably would’ve reamed him for being a damn nerd or an idiot.

But nobody was here.

He reached into the duffel bag, which he’d placed by the door to the kitchen when he’d staggered in a little while ago, and pulled out the pair of kitchen knives he’d been gifted by whoever dropped him in this weird, insanely morbid version of The Great Arcadian Bake-Off.

The glimmer of the rising sun peeked through a window, and shimmered off the blade of his knife.

He’d just have to prove himself in the wilds, then. Maybe this was like Crossed, except the assigned ingredients were just… everything on this Arbiterforsaken island. Deku was resourceful. He could do this. He could prove himself to whoever was looking to him right now, hoping and praying for his prosperity. Searching, perhaps, for a successor.

As he stretched a bruised arm out in front of him to get a better look at his blade, he felt a pain streak through his ribs. Almost in concert, the tremors of a headache rippled throughout his skull. Things were still missing, clearly, and the occasional migraine was a reminder of that. He frowned deeper, knowing that somewhere, hidden in the memories he’d lost, might be the key to reaching his greatest goal and winning this competition, whatever the hell it was.

While he quested, he’d keep his eyes open. For some… symbol, or piece.

A symbol… or piece…



Whatever, he shrugged, and trudged back out into the open air.
 

The Man in Red

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


The southern edge of the city gave way to rolling grass fields, and a well-worn and tramped down dirt road leading out through them. In the early morning light, the deep prints of the huge machine-man were clearly evident for young Midoriya to follow. He breathed deeply and evenly, trying his best to ignore the dull ache in his chest. Felt like his ribs were on fire…

As he crested a hill and had to shade his eyes against a sudden sparkling glare of sunlight reflecting off of the surface of a surprisingly large inland lake. He had to squint through the glare to make it out, but...there! That big, bald jerkass was stomping his steady, cocksure way around its edge toward where the trail continued on the other side.

Clenching both hands into fists, Midoriya took only a moment to catch his breath before launching himself into motion at full sprint down the hill.

The time it took him to cover the distance between himself and his quarry seemed only a scant few seconds. His frantic, rapid footsteps through the grass alerted the reploid to his approach and made him whirl around with an ugly scowl.

“You again, boy?!” he snarled. “I’d have thought you’d know better after our first run-in!”

“If I let myself be kept down by something like that…” Midoriya clenched one hand into an even tighter fist, as sparks started to dance around his limb and red lines of power coursed down toward his hand. “...then I can’t call myself a real Gyro chef!”

The odd statement drew a quizzical look from Sigma, making him raise one brow in clear confusion. “What in the hell are you talking about?” he barked. “You think this is some kind—”

His question was cut off as Midoriya leaped forward, covering the last dozen paces between them in the air. “SMAAAASH!” And like a shot from a gun, his fist blurred forward, striking the pompous commander right in his flapping mouth.

A sound like a thunderclap, and an echoing CLAAAANG of metal sounded. This time, it was Sigma’s turn to get sent flying, the colossal war-bot launched clean off the ground and into a crazy, end-over-end tumble through the air to land with a hefty metallic crunching on his neck, slowly toppling over to land sprawled on his back.

Midoriya touched down on the ground again only a heartbeat later. His arm tingled and trembled, blood slowly dropping down his throbbing and bruised fingers. They practically glowed an angry purple, as did many other spots all up and down his arm. It hurt, but at least he could still move it, and make a fist.

Slowly, Sigma stirred on the ground and planted both palms on the earth to push himself upright. There was an ugly, fist-sized dent in the side of his face, several of his teeth visibly cracked and at least one missing, spall green-blue sparks hissing from the space it once occupied. “I’ll give you credit, kid...you pack one hell of a punch. But that ain’t gonna be enough all by itself,” he sneered. Back on his feet, he brought a hand up and un-mangled his jaw and face, popping most of the dent back out with a screeching tone of shifting steel.

“Ghk…” Midoriya gulped, taking half a step backward before steeling himself. “Th-Then...I’ll come up with something else!” Fumbling hands dove into his bag, grasping the pair of knives within and pulling them out. He brandished them threateningly, furrowing his brows. “If this is some kind of...competition, then...I’ll carve you up, just like I’d do in the kitchen!”

The reploid commander laughed a deep, mocking laugh. “You’re even more cracked than I thought you were! But if you’re so set on being a chef...here.” He reached into the comparatively diminutive duffel bag and fished around for a moment before producing a small, worn leather pouch. “Enough of all kinds of crap in here to flavor just about everything. Hell, you could probably make a rock taste like five-star cuisine.”

He tossed it in a lazy arc toward Midoriya. “Catch.”

The young her--er, gyro chef just let out a confused “Huh?” and fumbled one of his knives, instinctively reaching for the airborne pouch.

Sigma smirked. His outstretched hand curled into a fist, and he lunged forward with a shadowy green after-image trailing in his wake. A hefty whumph sounded as his fist hit the pouch, and then it followed a muffled crunch as he struck Midoriya squarely in the face, producing a huge cloud of multicolored powder and dust.

The young ‘chef’ went sprawling onto his back, clutching at his face. The pain of the blow, and the horrible overpowering assault on his senses leaving him nearly blind and choking from the spices and herbs everywhere, leaving him gagging and gurgling and coughing.

“Idiot.” Sigma spat at him, before turning to tromp off into the plains. “Make sure we don’t meet again. I won’t keep being so generous.”


20 Contestants Remain

Izuku Midoriya has the Kitchen Knives.
Sigma had the Handy Spice Pouch, before he ‘gave’ it to Midoriya.

Sigma has sustained a broken jaw (Minor Injury) and several cracked/missing teeth (Minor Injury), as well as a multitude of minor dents, dings and surface-level damage (Story Injury).

Midoriya has suffered a broken nose (Minor Injury) as well as a fractured arm (Minor Injury), and suffered acute sensory distress from inhalation of enough concentrated spice to season an entire buffet (Story Injury).
 
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The Man in Red

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#009 Agent HUNK vs #007 Bloodhound​


Along the roads, the Warthog thundered at a brisk pace. This thing could really cover some ground in a hurry! And as it bounced slightly after cresting a hill and briefly gaining some air, thankfully its relative sturdiness was driven home.

The roar of its engine slowly died down as Bloodhound skidded to a stop at the edge of the road, spying what looked like some kind of farm in the near distance. There were signs of a fire being lit, the smoke rising up from signalling clear as day it had been done quite recently as well.

Warily, they shut off the vehicle and clambered out, patting their secondary weapon where it hung at their belt before proceeding toward the farm. It took only a quick cursory scouting to discover the source of the fire came from the barn. Approaching it, they carefully nudged the partially-ajar barn doors fully open and peered inside.

There was a scattering of the expected farm equipment and supplies inside. A tractor, several bales of hay, empty stalls for various purposes, many tools stacked against one wall…

And a fire burning in the center, next to which was seated a lone individual on a bale of hay. Clad all in black, with a gas mask covering their face. Slowly, their head lifted at the creaking of the barn doors. “This is private property,” a voice spoke up, deep and loud enough to be clear. Lifting a hand, they flipped open the cover on what a panicked glance told Bloodhound was a detonator.

As they did so, several small red lights began to blink all around the frame of the doors. “No solicitors,” the seated man said flatly.

Click.

The detonator was depressed, and even as the Hunter threw themselves away from the wooden structure it erupted in a huge fireball and shower of splinters, throwing them several yards away. Coughing from the smoke and impact, and brushing away splinters, but miraculously mostly unharmed from the blast aside from a dull ache in their everything and a painful ringing in their ears.

Bloodhound staggered upright, clutching at their side as they struggled to draw a full breath and turned to limp back toward their vehicle.

“Not so fast.” Boots sounds, crunching over splinters and grass as the other mystery figure came barreling through the smoke, seeming utterly unfazed and untouched by the huge blast. They struck Bloodhound full on with a shoulder tackle, taking both of them to the ground.

They both rolled about this way and that, exchanging quick and frantic blows; jabs, elbows, kicks, even a headbutt that finally sent the black-suited mercenary stumbling back with a muffled grunt.

The Hunter heaved several breaths, lumbering away back toward the Warthog. They unsteadily clambered into the back, reaching for the gatling turret there and wrenched it about to face their opponent, the barrels spinning to life with a dull, high-pitched whine.

With a flash of silver, the recovering mercenary reached for his belt, pulling free what at first looked like an intricate dagger. A flick of his wrist saw it flash out into a many dozen foot long whip, the steel links flashing in the morning sun as they whirled and writhed about him like a living thing.

The air was filled with the thunder of gunfire as the Warthog’s gatling turret unleashed a hail of bullets toward the Hunter’s adversary, tearing the ground around them to shreds. The mysterious whip flashed and whirled about to and fro, slicing and intercepting countless projectiles as its wielder slowly stalked forward, the crimson lenses of his gas mask almost seeming to glow in the shadow of his helmet.

A quick fake-out maneuver, Hunk darting left before throwing himself right, bought him a half-second’s reprieve from the onslaught of gunfire. The whip struck out in a silver blur, coiling and wrapping around the barrels of the turret. With a muscle-training wrench on the chain, the entire thing was sent spinning around, the red-hot barrels whirling about to strike Bloodhound in the torso and send them toppling end-over-end into the front seats of the vehicle.

The mercenary, breathing heavily, took a moment to withdraw the whip and catch his breath. “Never should’ve just come walking in, you…” he started, only to be cut off by the roar of the Warthog’s engine.

“A bad beginning draws a bad end,” the Hunter rasped, slumping forward and punching down the accelerator with their fist. The tires of the Warthog ground in the dirt as the engine thundered to full power, and it lurched into motion -- backward motion.

A series of bumps, thuds and a sickening crack nearly drowned out the cacophony of anguished grunts and screams as the military vehicle flattened and drove over its driver’s adversary, and crazily careened off back down the road.

20 Contestants Remain

Agent HUNK has the Vampire Killer.
Bloodhound has the Warthog.

Bloodhound suffered some minor explosion-related trauma in the form of large bruising and countless splinters and cuts over most of their front side (Minor Injury), a minor concussion that should fade within a few hours (Story Injury) and several additional bruises and abrasions from a brutal fistfight (Story Injury).

Agent Hunk suffered a broken nose and many other facial injuries (Minor Injury), several bruises and fractures and lingering aches from the fistfight (Story Injury), a fractured leg (Minor Injury) and a broken wrist (Minor Injury) from being driven over by Warthog.
 
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Rebecca Chambers

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As the sunrise sent fiery plumes of orange and pink cascading across the sky, Pathfinder tromped steadily along the craggy cliff hanging over the ocean, his metal legs slipping a bit across rocks splattered with slick seaspray. His little blue spaceship swooped along behind him with a quiet hum of its thrusters, never once straying from within a few feet of his position.

This was, predictably, because of the itty bitty camera lens attached to the bottom. The camera was focused on him at all times, whirring and locking onto his movements as he carefully meandered from one slippery rock the next, tracking his slow and arduous trek along the coastline. Pathfinder was glad for the company, and often stopped to make sure the drone was still following him. He couldn’t lose his new friend, after all!

Unfortunately (and despite his best efforts), Pathfinder had yet to cross paths with another contestant. He was a bit down in the dumps about it— it even occurred to him that perhaps he’d been dropped off on the wrong island. But Path wasn’t ready to give up just yet! Surely with a bit of exploring he’d find someone, somewhere around here… maybe they were hiding?

“You can’t hide from me, friends,” Pathfinder said with the utmost conviction, mostly for the drone’s benefit. “It might take a while, but I will find you!”

And it even seemed that his luck was turning around! Up ahead, the MRVN spied a collection of multicolored buildings scattered between what looked like a bunch of construction equipment, jutting out over the crashing ocean waves like some kind of giant concrete dock. There were even some shipping containers and semi-trailers hidden amongst the buildings, utterly abandoned by whatever company they’d belonged to. Their contents were the most mysterious of mysteries, that was for sure— Pathfinder couldn’t wait to explore them!

Picking up the pace, Pathfinder’s articulated legs squeaked quietly as he trotted along, scouting out what he could see of the buildings with his one-eyed gaze. When he was within about ten feet of one tall building, he stuck his arm out, his zipline snapping outward to connect with the edge of the roof with a solidly metallic clunk. A second later, he was literally swinging through the air— solidly colliding with the building’s tin siding and scrambling easily up it with a series of loud clangs.

Upon reaching the top, the MRVN paused to survey his surroundings, the yellow “pupil” shining at the center of his lone orange optic narrowing down to a fine point. Now, where were his new friends?

His head spun from left to right, the strange explodey collar locked around his throat cables slightly restricting the movement. Hmmm… nothing interesting here! Just a bunch of empty shipping containers, the pale grey shadows of morning stretching across the ground and casting everything in a muggy haze.

Pathfinder stilled for a moment, contemplative. He’d heard the clock bing-bonging earlier, and that silly Mister Brash’s announcements. If he couldn’t find any enemies here to kill, then he’d have to take drastic measures! Besides, an “easter egg” sounded fun, even if he didn’t know what that really was. Maybe winning it would give him extra attention from the event’s audience! His creator would be certain to notice him then… if they were in this universe, anyway…

Suddenly, a small scrtccchh came from somewhere inside the building below him. The faintest sound, like something made of metal dragging across something else made of metal. You could almost call it… metallic.

Silently gesturing for the drone to follow him, the MRVN tread heavily across the thin slats of the roof, peering down at the cheap tin beneath him like he could somehow see clear through it. His head tilted curiously to the side, optic whirring as he listened for further noises.

Sadly, all was quiet. But Pathfinder did not despair! Instead, he trotted over to the sheer edge of the roof, slipping over the side and landing on the cracked concrete below with a weighted thunk. The drone sedately floated down a moment later, hovering at a safe distance in the air.

Turning around, Pathfinder could see that there was a door leading into the building. A closed door. The MRVN wasn’t fooled, though— someone was definitely hiding in that building, and he was going to make! Contact!

Without thinking much of it, Pathfinder walked over to the door. He raised his hand, fully poised to knock, but paused at the last second.

Was he really going to knock on the door, willfully announcing his presence to whatever enemies were skulking about inside this building?

Hm! Well, yes. Yes he was.

KNOCK KNOCK.

“Hello, friend! I hope you’re accepting visitors… that was a joke, by the way!”
 

Beatrix III

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Had she known the event would come with a nearly strangling collar she would have passed. With her duffle bag of supplies draped over her butt, the strap crossing across her torso, Wraith dug her fingers into the side of the cliff and pulled her way to the top.

“Why did I see this coming a mile away and yet I still managed to get myself into this chicken shit outfit.” She mused out loud.

The armor that had been provided to her was moderately heavy and closely resembled one of her void combat jumpsuits from the Apex challenge. She had strapped the provided blade to her right thigh. As she pulled herself up onto the ledge the void specialist was glad, she had added fencing to her repertoire of combat training years ago. Gathering herself up Wraith stood atop the small hill she was climbing and eyed the river running below her.

Someone familiar has eyes on you.

The void specialist turned around and laid her eyes upon Mirage. With a sigh and slight smirk, she walked her way over to him. Placing both hands on his shoulders she pulled him close and sent one knee into his groin. With a smile she watched as the clone doubled over in pain and fizzled out of existence.

“Aw c’mon. Do you know how traum- traumati-…horrible it is to see yourself get kneed in the nuts? I feel his pain.”

“Hello Elliot.” Wraith said.

“How did I know you’d be here as well?”

“Hey, don’t look at me. I thought this was a dating service!” Mirage quipped.

“I don’t even have a reply for that.” She replied, taking her canteen from the spot on her belt.

Twisting the cap off she took a short drink before holding it out to Elliot.

“Is this a peace offering or are you about knee me in the nuts again?” He asked cautiously.

“I say we work together for now. No point in knifing you right away. I could use you.” Wraith said with a smile as Mirage took a drink from her canteen.

“Deal.” He said handing it back to her.
 

Masahir N'air

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It wasn’t long before the skulking robot managed to find his way to what looked to be several deserted buildings. The vividly painted shipping containers found their colors muted against the pale red light of the sunrise. As Rev approached, he strained to listen for any suspicious sounds, keen eyes studied the complex for points of entry, checking to see if doors had been opened or windows busted into. He dipped behind cover, bracing his back against the perimeter wall with a quiet scuff of metal on concrete.

When nothing but silence and distant birdsong surrounded him, he bolted to the first closed door he saw, ripping it open and quickly pulling it shut behind him- no point in letting a skinsuit get the drop on him while his back was turned. Ravenous yellow eyes scoured the room greedily, looking for any and everything that could be of use to him in the royale ring.

He had only been tearing through the building for five or so minutes when a cloying, scratching clang sent him on high alert. Someone was here- finally, a wretched opponent to rend apart! The simulacrum crouched, prowling to the only entrance with an eerie amount of silence and speed. Again he pressed himself against the wall and studied the door, patiently waiting for his quarry to make their way to him.

A steel cable wheezed under moving weight, before a loud clatter of a heavy body banged against the upper tin siding of his building. A zipline. It was unmistakable, after countless Apex Games, he knew that sound anywhere. The stomping around on the roof was nearly an anxious pace, punctuated by short but certainly contemplative pauses. Revenant scowled, either they wanted the trash in this building, or they knew he was here and were looking to add to their own personal body count. He was willing to wager it was a little bit of both.

The dull thud just outside of the door sent a rush up the nightmare’s synthetic spine, his glowering eyes narrowing with untold threats. Another pause- he was certain they were preparing their weapons to clear the building, perhaps even psyching themselves up for the thrill of active combat, the delight of snuffing out the life in someone’s eyes and watching them fade into nothing. The springs that composed his synthetic tendons stretched under his growing tension, ready to jolt him forward into a desperate hand-to-hand battle.

Needless to say the synthetic nightmare was more than a bit surprised when instead of the door being kicked down, a few polite rapping knocks reached his audio processors, followed by an all-too-familiar and grating voice.

“Hello, friend! I hope you’re accepting visitors… that was a joke, by the way!”

The hitman let out a frustrated growl and sprang from his position, slinging the door open to find Pathfinder standing there, arm still outstretched from knocking on the door. If Revenant actually had eyelids, or a flapping, fleshy mouth, he’d probably look a lot more pissed off.

“Pathfinder.” Came his snarled greeting. That damn optimistic, jackass MRVN. Had he really knocked on the door? That damned machine would- hopefully- get himself violently dismantled pulling such stupid tactics in this Death Game. “Tell me what you want, before I pick you apart, gear from gear.”

The screen on the MRVN’s chest flickered, changing to display a blue frowning face as his hand slowly sank back to his side. "That's very kind of you to ask, friend," said Pathfinder, the sad expression on his screen blooming into a sunshiney yellow smile. "I hadn't expected to find you here! I was about to kill you!"

The nightmarish hitman raked his demonic eyes over the robot, equal parts offended and amused. His wry chuckle did little to alleviate the tension in the air. “Ha! You kill me? I’d love to see you try.” His humor dried up as he spoke, replaced by cynical annoyance. “Lemme guess, you want to team up and be friends.”

“Exactly!” The robot chirped, “I haven’t come across anyone else so far, and I think we’ll make a great team... partner?”

The mercenary let out a whirring groan and shook his head, pushing past Pathfinder to stand outside. “I’m only agreeing to this so I can get a front row seat to your destruction, partner.”
 

Ganondorf

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The sun was rising, scaring away the uniform blackness that Gengar liked to hide in like a deep, black pool. It was only early morning though, so shadows still stretched long down the landscape. He darted between them, a momentary black blur leaping between ebony ponds. He slithered through them, his red eyes emerging from the darkness as he surveyed the area before him.

Despite the nagging pain on his head, Gengar was feeling much better. Why he lost his composure like that, he wasn’t sure. He was well trained by Agatha, a perfect Pokemon combatant, very rarely losing to anyone that challenged his Pokemon trainer. Maybe her recent passing had... wounded him worse than he first thought. After being with her for so long, even a Gengar could grow attached. For it to all come suddenly to an end...

Gengar banished the thoughts from his mind. He remembered Agatha’s training, the strength of her will and the power of her words. He would not forget them, and in those times he focused on other things, he knew they would return to guide him again.

The ghost Pokemon dipped back into the long cast shadow of a tall tree and raced along the ground incognito. He popped back up where the trunk met the shadow and spotted someone walking past. He considered jumping into their shadow, hovering for a time while he waited for the perfect moment to surprise his new target, but noticed there wasn’t much of a shadow to speak of. A light on top of the figure’s head chased away much of the gloom the ghost Pokemon could hide in.

Wait. A light on top of its head?

Gengar focused. A single eyeball taking the place of a skull, wreathed in purple fire? There was only one person he knew that looked like that!

“One-Eye!” Gengar yelled, stepping out from behind the tree. The Prisoner turned, startled, the eye-flame shifting to yellow. “It’s been too long.”

Gengar waddled to the only person he had spoken to before this whole tournament started. The Prisoner stared at him warily, holding a hand to the bag on his hip.

Red eyes cocked, Gengar looked The Prisoner up and down. What was he so nervous about? Then it hit him. “Oh, right! I’m not going to kill you, One-Eye! We’ve known each other so long! Besides, you’re the only one I trust on this island. I mean, if I wanted to kill you, you’d already have a Shadow Ball in your back.” Gengar pointed to his head and his burns. “See this? Some living thing did this to me. Pah. Can’t trust anything with a pulse, huh? Anyway, I think it might be better to team up! Can’t have some pudgy middle-aged human get the drop on me again. It’s embarrassing enough it happened once.”

The Prisoner relaxed a little, still keeping a hand close to its duffel bag, but stood firmer. The flame wavered to blue. Whatever that meant. Maybe it was trying to talk to Gengar in its own limited way?

“Look, I’ll even share my provisions with you,” Gengar said, slipping the strap of his bag over his head and dumping it on the ground. He unzipped it and dug about, retrieving a bottle of water and a MRE in either hand. “I don’t need to eat or drink, so...”

The Prisoner stared at him, shrugging.

“... neither do you, since you’re just a burning eye.” Gengar threw the items back inside. His eyes lit up. “Oh wait! If you join up with me, I’ll let you play with this!”

Gengar pulled out his remote control tank and its remote, smiling wide. He set down the toy, grinning with glee, and drove it around in circles. Tiny pellets fired from the tank’s main cannon, bouncing weakly off The Prisoner’s shin, a scratchy explosion sound coming through a speaker somewhere on the toy. The Prisoner’s flame turned green as he sat down beside Gengar, his pupil watching with wrapt interest.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Gengar said. “I call him Blammo. I’m still learning how to drive this thing, but do you want a turn?”

The Prisoner looked at the controller held out by Gengar. He took it, lifted it up to inspect its underside, then pressed a thumb against the control stick. He started as Blammo rolled forward.

“That’s it! That button there-“

A pellet slapped against Gengar’s stomach.

“Yep! That’s the one!” Gengar laughed boisterously.

The Prisoner’s flame turned orange.

“We friends now, One-Eye?” Gengar said, holding out an open hand.

The Prisoner inspected the outstretched gesture, then slapped it with his hand.

Gengar rolled onto his back and laughed, bobbing back to a sitting position. “This is going to be so much fun!
 

Arno Timber

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Bloodhound swerved the Warthog off of the road and into a small patch of trees. They lurched slightly as they stood from the seat, almost collapsing to the ground. The battle had taken its toll, they were far from steady on their feet, their head throbbing angrily. With a groan, they removed the top portion of their helmet, revealing little more than a leather coif. They slumped against a nearby try and retrieved one of the bottles of water from the duffle bag slung over the shoulder. With a heavy sigh, the hunter tugged their mask aside. Another sigh escaped them as their gloved fingers traced a few of the scars across their face before taking a long swig from the bottle of water. The remaining liquid was quickly dumped out over the top of their head. Water bottle returned to the duffle, Bloodhound set about the laborious task of removing all of the individual splinters of shrapnel from the explosion. They cursed, inwardly. Such an obvious trap and they’d all but wandered in.

But, they’d survived. They were unsure of the state of their opponent. The warthog had drowned out their screams of agony, but the nervous energy of the moment had spurred Bloodhound into fleeing. If the mercenary had died, at least they died with honour. Bloodhound’s resolve wavered a moment. It would not have been a clean kill, no prayers to the Allfather, nothing. Just left in the dirt to rot.

“Vámr!” They spat and pushed back up to their feet. They were tempted to return to the farm and give them whatever rites they were entitled to. But their better judgement prevailed. There was every chance that their adversary had survived the ordeal with a few broken bones and bruises. Bloodhound stooped, with a groan, and retrieved their helmet. After replacing their gas mask and the helmet, the hunter returned to the Warthog. They tossed the duffle into the empty passenger seat before moving towards the gatling on the back. A few moments of inspection revealed that it was, in fact, not detachable. With a huff, the Hunter relented. They needed another weapon. Something less unwieldy than having to drive into a firefight and something with less potential to blow themselves up, along with their intended target, than their other weapon. The mercenary’s whip was a tempting prospect but engaging in another fist fight in their current state was not a prospect they enjoyed the thought of.

Bloodhound hopped into the seat of the Warthog, the engines roared to life and they took off, searching for their next fight.
 

Mad Maggie

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I had noted the announcement, and seeing that our section of the island was still safe from random chance, elected to set up a temporary camp and tactically align myself with the dark knight. My duffel bag, due to either a mistake or a practical joke, was bereft of MREs. Instead, beans. Maple, vegetarian, pork belly, spiced. Cans of beans.

Raising a spoon to my lips, I lowered my respirator. "So, Lord Vader...You excel at direct combat, yes? You cut an intimidating figure when you appear." My only response was a slight tilt of the giant's head. I continued, spooning more cold beans into my mouth. I didn't remember the last meal I'd actually had. Probably roasted game with the research expedition before that went sideways. "Whereas I have been relieved by the host of most of my equipment in the interest of fairness. I must confess, my pursuit of scientific expertise has left my physical combat....lacking.

A heavy, mechanical hiss preceded the mechanical man's actual response. "You need not worry, Doctor. I am well versed to fighting in tandem with covert troopers." Hssssssk-puff. "I would advise you stay behind me."

I nodded, finishing my beans and coughing heavily. "I can't help but notice your breathing system. A marvel of science. May I ask...."

"Magma burns during my youth." And that was all the explanation I was granted.

I responded while reaffixing my respirator. "Chemical fumes from years of lab work. And experimentation."

Terse and focused. Vader was the type of ally I craved in the games and failed to discover. The added bonus of being able to scavenge his corpse for technological advancements made staying near him until the time was right almost a necessity.

Which forced me to quickly pack up as he rose from his seated position and started towards the exit tunnel. "Come, doctor. I can sense many lives in need of a sudden end."
 

Raal Deathwind

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The gods in Remnant’s distant past had a certain flare for smiting those that seemed arrogant, foolish, or a threat to the world at large with a bolt of lightning from the heavens. It tended to both be a statement marking their utter power in the world, and a curt damnation of the one so struck.

Weiss couldn’t help but feel like whatever god had been following her these past few years had just finally decided to dispense with the theatrics and make his or her opinion very clear on the huntress.

Groaning, she ran past the cliffs, further up the road she’d been following. A limp had already found it’s way into her step, and the belt around her waist had been slipped off her waist and improvised into a sling for her newly broken arm - it wasn’t sufficient, but it’d have to hold until she could find shelter.

Weiss looked back over her shoulder, the storms still roiling in the distance - they were just barely visible, but far away from where she was now. It was time for her to find some shelter, and the hollowfied huntress turned her eyes to her immediate area with an eye for a safe hideaway. There was a few sparse trees here and there,lots of open, grassy knolls, a convenience store…

Wait, dial that back?

Weiss blinked a few times, a slight frown entering her face as her eyes refocused and she quickly realized her first look was somehow correct. It had all the trappings of a normal gas station with the exception of the actual, well, gas missing, leaving the capitalist landmark as little more than an abandoned potato chip dispenser. Other than that, it seemed perfectly standard as gas stops went - glass, steel and various foodstuffs with no nutritional value.

Weiss snorted at the sheer absurdity, but it would give her some cover, and a relatively easy spot to defend. Limping as fast as she dared, she managed to get up to the steps upt ot the door quickly. Putting down the survival bag, Weiss realized with some dismay that the door handle would need a free hand to open. Even as she walked up the steps, she kept her eyes trained on the bag, making sure to keep it in her sight the whole time. It would be just like today for the supplies to disappear the moment she looked away, after all.

She ascended the concrete steps up to the door and sighed as soon as she gave the door an experimental tug - The door would have been easy enough to open normally, but it was easy enough to tell from one pull it was stuck, and she only had one hand to open it with. Weiss finally settled on giving it one hard tug to try and loosen the door. With a grunt of effort, Weiss finally Wrenched the door wide open with one pull. Unfortunately for the huntress, she pulled too hard, and her own momentum sent her sprawling to the side and slamming her broken arm into something very hard and solid.

The Huntress nearly screamed, biting back agony as tears streamed from her eyes, her hand placed over her mouth to muffle her scream of agony to a frustrated whine. Looking to her side, she realized that the smashed limb had collided with a safety rail.

Well, the irony managed to bring a slight smirk to her face, in spite of herself.

Weiss picked up her bag and slammed it on the counter with a huff. The glass counter shuddered with the impact, but managed to hold on despite Weiss’s tantrum, and she took a deep breath as she inspected the place.

Cramped and dark, Weiss only considered actually turning the lights on for a moment - she didn’t want to risk being noticed. The counter was empty of the usual goods, save for a folder filled with something - a special delivery for…

“Uranishi Washi?” Weiss asked with a frown. Strange name for a man, really. Shrugging it off, she focused on the lengthy task of opening the zipper to the duffel one-handed. “One time I would’ve preferred velcro…” The huntress muttered, easing the bag open.

Within, Weiss noticed the inventory was relatively packed, and she immediately figured out why her bag had been so damn heavy this entire trip.

Within was contained a backpack, Some MRE’s, snacks, a bit of water, and perplexingly, a backpack. Why a container would be required to store a slightly smaller container escaped Weiss, but at least it was a hands-free operation.

Unlike…

Weiss looked in the bag and sighed, a tear coming to her eye as she observed her new weapon. It wasn’t the type she’d normally use - a bit too brutal - but it was a moot point, as she felt her legs give out.

“Damnit, damnit, damnit!” Weiss choked out, slamming her fist against the counter as she slowly slid to her knees.

The weapon her host had given her, the only replacement she had for Myrtenaster…

It needed two hands.

Just her luck.

“...Was it too much to just have one thing go right today?!” Weiss cried out in frustration. She was in pain, she was down an arm, down a weapon, and likely to be down a life pretty soon, too.

She had a limit to how much she could take, and she was finally getting close as she rested her head against the glass.

“Sheesh, talk about the overdramatics!’

Weiss blinked a few times, taking a breath before turning around to see just what fresh surprise life had for her this time.

A redheaded girl had sprawled out of her duffel bag, laying across the counter as she stretched out her arms.

If she’d happened to go insane at some point from the pain, at least her mind was keeping it… interesting? Entertaining?

The White-haired girl realized she was still staring open-mouthed at the sudden

The girl locked eyes with her, playing with her ponytail as piercing emerald eyes locked with Weiss’s own. “Hey, bit of an abrupt question, but you haven’t seen a doofy-looking bear ‘round here, have you? Short, honest, totally lost without me?”
 

Karl Jak

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"I should stop being shocked."



Karl Jak fiddled with the needle as he worked to repair the tear in his suit. He had debated for a while about ignoring the tear and the flayed pocket, since he was certain such a look would help add to what was otherwise a less than fearsome aura of terror. Apparently, coiffed hair, maintained nails, and an overall unimposingly polished set of facial features did not project adequate levels of horror in the souls of battle-hardened warriors. That is, until they step up to you in your own homemade pocket universe and think they are hot shit because where they come from they kill alien jellyfish.

The producer sneered at the memories as he snaked the needle and its accompanying thread through the fissure in his suit jacket. That was just one of a handful of delightful memories in the ole Syntech Vault.

One of those memories? The green creature who had tried to stick it to Karl Jak in one of executive's least preferred manners. Based on their banter, this wasn't the walking punchline that the producer had observed in the 'everyone runs around' event of a few years ago. On the other hand, this wasn't the burly and angsty version who had been paired with a ferret (or was it a weasel?) in the big ole tournament event that had ended with its host multiverse being torn asunder in a raging, spiteful fury. Sadly, Karl didn't think the Cell he had encountered was one of the four or five different versions he had hosted back in 'original gangster' land, where everyone that mattered had ass lasers.

So this meant it was yet another permutation. Did this one have that flair of the outback in him? Southern seasoning? Karl hadn't smelled anything special, which told him that this bioandroid was probably a glorified prop pieced together by the people in charge of this event.

"A pity -- I liked the version with the punchlines. He would have appreciated my jokes."

With the suit mostly fixed as he fondly recalled memories only he himself cared about, Karl returned the sewing kit to his duffel bag and slipped the jacket back into its rightful spot. Sure, he stank like sewer mud, and while his loafers would never be the same again, it was the little things that mattered when you were adventuring, was that not the case?

In the background, the host of the event was prattling off platitudes for their continued survival. Who died in the first six hours? Karl had seen more of these events than he could count, and even the most inept individuals could at least manage to last twelve hours before their luck ran out and they flashed off the mortal coil. With the swamp around him not offering much in the way of scenery, the executive took a few moments to brush off what he could from his attire. He was sure that the bag had a compass and a map in it somewhere, but he was also fairly certain he could get along fine without needing either of them.

Call it a ‘fourth sense’ or something.

Grinning smugly, Karl Jak made the final needed adjustments to his cuffs and headed out in a new direction.
 

The Man in Red

malignant masked misanthrope
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Face-off
#018 Mirage & #019 Wraith vs #017 King​


The dull rumble of the boat’s engine slowly died as it came to rest against the small dock of the island. A quick look around would confirm that several rivers on the island converged here, in what looked like the center according to the map, around this small island within an island.

There wasn’t much to see; the entire thing was barely two miles across at its widest point. The tiny little...town? Village? Homestead? That occupied it was lucky to be a quarter of that. The entire place was likely as not to be entirely abandoned…

...except for the distant, echoing sound of music blaring through the trees.

Following the sounds, the two Legends crept up to the edge of the tiny settlement and after a quick scouting, discovered the source. Sat in the middle of a road, leaning up against an old well and positively rattling with the volume it was putting out, there was a battered and scuffed up old...boombox?

A bizarre logo on the front, and several tiny little plastic figures arranged around it.

It was an incredibly odd scene. Even moreso when a lone man came slowly pacing out of one of the buildings, duffel bag held loosely over his shoulder in one hand and idly munching on a hunk of bread with the other. Over to the boombox where he lightly nudged it with his shoe, searching for the buttons before it went quiet with a soft clack.

“If anyone is there...you should just leave now,” the man spoke up. His voice was low and deep, with an almost somber edge to it. “I don’t want to fight, even in this ridiculous game.”

“Well that’s too bad. Because a fight is exactly what’s coming to you.” Armor boots sounded, crunching over the dirt path as their owner strode around a building corner. Long sword drawn in one hand, huge circular shield readied in the other. “Taking you down means one less competitor in this whole thing to worry about.”

The lone man slowly turned to face the newcomer, his expression cold and hard. “I was trying to warn you for your sake, you know,” he spoke quietly. A dull rumbling noise began to sound, filling the tiny little hamlet as he dropped the duffel bag to the ground and tossed the bread in his other hand away. “I don’t want to have to do this. You should just--”

“YAAAAA-HAAAA!” A sharp, metallic twang sounded, in time with a hiss of air as a humanoid figure launched over a rooftop behind the man and came barreling down toward him. Sword in either hand, he spun crazily and very nearly took off his opponent’s head before a thin cable shot out toward another building and sent him flying around to land on his feet, skidding several yards before finally coming to a halt. “Two against one, man. Don’t be acting all high and mighty now.”

“....fine.” The man took a deep breath, not even registering the thin line of blood slowly dripping down his neck as he adjusted his posture, sliding into a combat-ready stance. “If that’s what you want…” He tensed up, expression darkening to one of pure and utter bloodlust...before he snatched up his duffel bag with a blur of motion and turned tail to bolt with surprising speed. “Ultimate Fleeing Technique: Backwards B-Dash!” he shouted as dust rose in his wake.

Mirage and Wraith were both left flummoxed for a moment, staring after him comically before glancing at each other and then breaking into a run to pursue him.

With a snap-hiss, another line launched out of the flashy new gear Mirage sported, latching onto a rooftop and yanking him off the ground. “Still trying to get the hang of this thiiiing--” he screeched, before haphazardly flipping and tumbling over said rooftop and vanishing beyond it.

The bizarre chase lasted for nearly fifteen minutes before King was finally ‘cornered’ under a bridge, the path below it blocked in with rubble and debris. He slid to a stop several paces before it, looking this way and that as he gasped and desperately tried to breathe enough to not pass out. ”Crap, crap, crap, crap…!” he mentally shouted at himself, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. ”What do I do now…? I let myself get run into a dead end!”

A sharp hissing noise sounded and Mirage blurred into view over the bridge, a cable latching onto its stonework and sending him careening around and down under it to crash right into King with a devastating CRACKLE-CRUNCH of impact, sandwiching the legendary Hero between the rocky wall and the Legend’s shoulder.

It was only moments later that Wraith came sliding down the embankment to join the fray. Sword gone, she cocked her armored arm back, clutching at the shimmering talisman which had come with the armor as lightning crackled around her hand. “Duck!”

“Quack!” Mirage shouted, as he leaped back and sprawled on his back.

Just in time for the spear of lightning to roar over him and hit King squarely in the chest, eliciting a deafeningly high-pitched shriek of pain and a revolting smell of singed meat and hair as he slumped forward, staggering drunkenly.

“I...d-didn't’ want...to have to do this…” he weakly stammered, trying to get a proper breath through the immense pain coursing through him. “But...I g-guess…” One of his hands slowly crept inside his duffel bag, grasping hold of something. “...I have no choice…” His head lifted, a defiant fire burning in his eyes as he ripped his arm up, holding forth a glimmering, purple gemstone.

“CHAOS...CONTROL!”

The entire world flashed a kaleidoscope of colors, light briefly inverting to darkness with a sound like all the air being suckd out of the tiny hamlet...and then an explosion went off, throwing Wraith and Mirage through the air like ragdolls.

When their senses returned to them, King was gone without a trace, only singed footprints in the dirt where he had been standing left behind.

“Man, what the heck was that all about?”


20 Contestants Remain

Wraith has the Sunlight Gear.
Mirage has the 3D Maneuver Gear.
King has the Boombox and the Chaos Emeralds.

King suffered several fractured ribs (Minor Injury) and a broken arm (Major Injury), as well as a burned lung (Minor Injury) and severe bruising and electrical burns over most of his body (Minor Injury).

Mirage suffered from a multitude of scraps and minor whiplash-related injuries (Minor Injury).

Wraith was battered and bruised from being thrown by the final blast. (Story Injury)
 
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