Day 1, Phase 3

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The Man in Red

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Day 1, Phase 3
Afternoon Phase: 1200 to 1800​


“Aaaaaand good evening, down there, surviving contestants!” This time, the voice that rose over the island-wide comms was a loud, manic one. “Paulson Glayde here, speaking in lieu of our ever-busy host! Allow me to offer congratulations to everyone surviving -- which is, somehow, all of you! -- and to offer some encouragement to pick up the pace with the killing! Half a day, and no one dead yet. Tsk tsk tsk!”

The sound of quickly shuffling through some papers for a moment before the announcer forged onward. ”All those Danger Zones from last time are about to get a whole lot more deadly, and those new ones we mentioned? They’re online! Hope ya remember which ones they were!” He laughed frantically, slapping the desk before him ”Ayway, here’s some new ones for you to worry about as they go live this evening:

M-2!
F-13!
L-14!
B-4!
H-2!
D-5!
C-3!

“Remember, all of those? Danger Zones come sunset, so make sure to keep your wits about you!

And last but not least, that special little Easter Egg mentioned this morning? It’s dropping aaaaaany minute now, so everybody hold onto their butts!

Best of luck, and happy murdering!”

NPC Movement Updates

Mid-Boss remains unrevealed, shuffling around out there somewhere...
Cell continues to lurk among the swamplands, waiting for a good opportunity.
Agent Hunk limps away from the remains of the farmhouse he once lurked in, following the river.
Sigma tromps his way along the road, maniacal energy and ego driving him forward toward what he hopes will be another victory.
Darth Vader remains steadfast in his temporary alliance with the 'good' doctor...
King slowly swims away from the site of his last fight.


Bulletins and Updates
  • Nothing new at this time. Enjoy your killing spree out there!
 
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The Man in Red

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? ? ?
#016 Magus​

As he slowly paced along, Magus began to notice an insistent beeping from the collar about his neck. It worryingly tightened, several lights flashing.

A brief projection emitted from it, flashing in the air before him, of a Comedy mask grinning back at him...before slowly twisting into a sad, frowning Tragedy mask. And even that swiftly melted into a leering, angry skull.

The world went white, with a final chiming beep from the collar, and the sound of an explosion going off sounded. Gore and viscera sprayed the surrounding landscape as the headless corpse of Magus slowly toppled over to the ground.

19 Contestants Remain






Gross.

Movements are important to remember, kids.
 
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The Man in Red

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Face-off
#011 Dr. Caustic & #015 Darth Vader vs #005 Katsuki Bakugo vs #020 Izuku Midoriya vs #001 The Prisoner & #003 Gengar​


Within the city lurking at a corner of the island, one of the staff for the event simply appeared through a doorway that carved itself into a wall. He was carting one end of a large, secured metallic container, the other end supported by an identically dressed associate. They hauled it out before setting it down.

“Damn, this thing is heavy for what’s in it…” the man muttered.

“Yeah, well. Gotta make it seem worth it, y’know?” his associate commented, before setting her boot against it and giving it a shove.

It slid forward a few feet before tipping over the edge of the rooftop they emerged on, and sailing down into the city below.

Their job done, the pair shook hands and departed through the same door they came through, which faded to a rough chalk scribble on the brickwork behind them.

The mysterious package had landed amid the freshly-made rubble of what had once been a small convenience store. Several lights on the oversized box flashed a shade of amber as they awaited the arrival of someone to come claim it.

That wait was not long, as slow and methodical footfalls approached. Various chunks of rubble lifted up as if moved by massive, unseen hands and were casually tossed aside, clearing an easy path as the unnerving figure of Darth Vader slowly paced up to it. “An easy prize to claim…”

“Not so fast!” a brash voice shouted, as quick footsteps pounded the pavement. “Back off, freak!” And a harsh cry of thunder spewed forth as the Chicago Typewriter vented its payload in a wide spray, Bakugo not even stopping his charge toward the scene.

Vader whirled about in place with alarming precision, a sharp reverberating hissing sound heralding the ignition of a red-bladed energy sword as he swept it in a series of dizzying, graceful arcs to carve the bullets out of the air. So on the defensive was he against the gunfire, however, he was unprepared for the rushing youth to blindside him with a hand full of explosive energy, blasting him several paces back across the street.

“What desperation would cause them to resort to signing a child up for such a competition?” The Sith Lord demanded, as he swept aside the smoke with a wave of his hand.

“Child?!” Bakugo roared, a vein bulging in his temple. “You little…!”

“Gehehehe….” With a malicious cackle, the ghostly form of Gengar slowly emerged from the ground near to the supply trunk. “All mine!” And he pawed at the buttons and display rapidly, trying to figure out how to open it. The vicious hail of gunfire and numerous chunks of thrown debris made him swiftly reconsider this course of action, and he lashed out with the second prize in his weapon arsenal, erecting a barrier between him and further harm in a flash of blue light. “Watch it, you jerks! I’m trying to steal this thing out from under you!”

The distraction served only to allow Vader to stomp back into melee range, lightsaber flashing in eye-searing arcs of bright red as it threatened to cleave the explosive hero in two.

Bakugo was forced to backpedal furiously, ducking and weaving frantically to avoid the energy blade. His eyes were narrowed in focus as he watched every movement carefully and doing his best to subtly lead the Sith away from the drop site. There was definitely no small amount of brute force and power behind every swing, but also surprising precision and grace. An experienced fighter, but…

The explosive youth crouched down and leaped back several paces before throwing both hands back and letting loose a huge explosion to launch himself back forward, spiraling through the air to avoid the worst of a clumsy counter strike from his foe. “You’re too used to fighting people with swords!” he roared, before he slammed one empty palm into that ridiculous skull-faced helmet and let loose another explosion.

With everything gone to chaos and hell, the flame-headed form of the Prisoner came storming onto the scene. He charged up next to his ghostly ally, still scowling at the ongoing fight. “Hey, one-eye! Get this thing open, will ya? I’ll cover you.” The corpse-candle looked from the explosion-filled fight back to his partner, then to the chest. He simply nodded, before kneeling down in front of it to get to work. In the end he simply resorted to brute force to wrench it open, with an angry squealing of metal as it was torn asunder, and the Prisoner reached inside to curiously pluck out the contents.

”You’re not getting out of here with that!” Midoriya suddenly cried, his body surging with sparks and flashes of green light as he seemed put on an extra burst of speed, crashing into the flame-headed undead like a runaway truck. A very...small truck.

More than enough to knock it off balance at least, as the young Midoriya flipped up and over, grasping for the case with both hands and wrenching at it with all his might.

Holding tight to it, the Prisoner adamantly refused to budge, the flames of its head flaring to an angry red color as it tugged back, reaching for the ornate sword strung to its hip with its free hand. Angry flailing and slashing at the green-haired youth quickly saw him let go, lest he suffer the sudden loss of his hands.

He flopped to the ground but quickly rolled over and sprang back up to his feet, panting heavily.

“Hey, pal! Over here!” Gengar shouted as he dashed away and around the youth. “I got it!”

Without thinking, the Prisoner hurled the armored briefcase toward his partner….only for the ghost to completely miss catching it, as it was buffeted by a shower of gunfire, sparking and crackling as it was catapulted well out of reach and came to rest teetering on a window ledge, just below the rooftop of a nearby building.

Further down the street, Bakugo was sent reeling by a hail of thrown debris and brickwork. Vader had redoubled his offensive, striking out with his lightsaber in one hand, the clunky but devastating powered gauntlet in the other, and using his mind to rip anything and everything from the environment to use as a projectile.

“Tch...what the hell kind of quirk do you have?!” he snarled as he blew apart a section of brick wall, firing a scattering of fire from his tommy gun at his foe.

A quick swipe of the red energy blade swatted the bullets aside as a sudden wave of force struck the explosive hero full-on and sent him rocketing along the street. Vader stormed after him, footfalls heavy and mechanical breathing as steady as ever. “Even with all of your tricks, you were no match for the power of the dark side.” He raised his lightsaber to prepare a killing blow…

“KACCHAN!” There was a frantic scrambling of movement, and suddenly the form of Izuku Midoriya literally appeared between the Sith Lord and the explosive hero. His face was twisted into a mask of steel, and he drew back one hand as green lightning arced around it, his skin flushing red as he grit his teeth. “Get away from him!” he shouted, and dove forward, fist-first. “UNITED STATES OF SMAAASH!

Try as he might to have readied a defense, the efforts were broken like glass before a hurricane. The green-haired youth’s fist struck the Sith Lord squarely in the chest, with a sound of crackling plastic and buckling metal. A sharp groan and wheezing gasp of pain were all the noise Vade could make before he turned into a comical blur and was launched back, flying down the street like a missile to crash into -- and THROUGH a building, bringing the entire thing toppling down in a cascade of rubble.

Atop the roof where the prize had been discarded, Dr. Caustic stared at the scene with dispassionate interest. “Remarkable…” was all he could say, before reaching into the duffel bag at his side and slowly withdrawing an odd-looking pistol. “But as good an opportunity as any…”

As Bakugo regained his breath and his footing, he snarled at Midoriya. “You...why the hell are you here, you damn nerd?! The fuck are you doing?!

Further argument and anger was interrupted by the Prisoner’s sudden arrival in the fray, the ornate sword held in both hands. He slashed and struck out wildly, at both of the young heroes one after another. Brute strength and savagery serving to make up for lack of skill -- especially when guided and assisted by the sentient spirit within the blade.

“Keep ‘em busy down there, one-eye! Leave this to me!” Gengar shouted down, before turning to regard Caustic with an angry scowl. “You again…” He grasped the bizarre sword in both of his stubby arms. “Not gonna go down the same as it did last time, I swear.”

Caustic sneered as he quickly backpedaled. “Ah, the ghost. How unpleasant to see you again.” He raised the childish-looking gun in his hand threateningly. “You won’t be taking this so easily.”

The ghost’s scowl turned to a broad smirk. “What’re you gonna do with that thing? Make sparkly flashing lights and spaceman sounds at me until I die from laughing?”

Behind his rebreather, Caustic could only smirk. “This is for someone else. I have another trick in mind for you.” His hand vanished inside his bag again, and he pulled it out clutching a bundle of...grenades?

“What are those supposed to be…?” the ghost hissed, not really paying the odd-looking things any mind and instead preparing another dose of Shadow Ball in one hand. His attack was interrupted as the entire rooftop exploded in a thick haze of gas and smoke, making even his undead and spiritual form wretch and heave in agony at the chemical assault.

”Breathe it in!” the mad doctor hissed, as he crept forward and leaned perilously down over the edge of the roof to snatch up the case holding the prize of this entire event. At the edge of the rooftop, he paused with a smirk under his rebreather as he leveled the odd-looking gun toward the fight in the streets below. “Three...for the price of one,” he remarked, and depressed the trigger.

Below, it was Bakugo who first noticed the faint pinpoint of red light on the ground. His eyes went from it to whirling around at the area. The rapidly-increasing glare of bright blue light made his eyes wide. “Deku, get the fuck out of here!”

“W-What?! Kacchan, I can't just--”

“MOVE!” Without brokering argument, Bakugo threw one hand out toward Midoriya and unleashed an explosion at him, sending the youth flying across the street and through a window. For his own part, he simply gritted his teeth and dove forward, tackling the bizarre candle-headed undead full-on. They wrestled and struggled against each other for a second, before the Prisoner simply struck out with an empty hand, grabbing the much smaller youth by the neck and heaving him up off the ground.

With an angry scowl, Bakugo threw his hand toward the flaming head of the thing and let loose a huge explosion. More out of surprise than anything else, the Prisoner hurled the explosive youth away, staggering back away from the blast...right into the center of where the sky suddenly fell.

A lance of unearthly blue light stabbed down from the sky, hitting the ground where that red laser pointer had been, right where the Prisoner now stood, and erupting in a terrific explosion. Bakugo was launched like he weighed nothing, slamming into a street light and flopping miserably down the street several times.

As the smoke cleared, the Prisoner was miraculously still standing. Scorched and burned nearly beyond recognition, but still standing. The sword in its hands was raised overhead, flat side turned toward the heavens. A small ‘island’ just big enough for its feet to stand on remained underneath it, blackened but un-disintegrated by the laser blast, leaving a huge crater around it.

Gengar slowly hove into view, coughing and hacking madly. “Ugh...how does that…” he wheezes. “...even work?!”

Caustic cackled to himself as he jogged down the street, the prize tucked under one arm. “Far too easy…” he whispered.

His mood changed entirely when the battered and bloody form of Bakugo stepped out of a haze of smoke, leering at him with an almost palpable bloodlust. “Hand...it over...old man…” he rasped, both hands crackling and popping with barely-restrained explosive force.

Cursing, Caustic stepped back, only to be suddenly tackled from behind and knocked flat, Midoriya grasping him around the waist. “K-Kacchan...t-take it! Run!”

“Damn it, you fucking nerd…!” With a growl, the ash-blonde hero slowly stepped forward and grabbed the case. The slow, menacing footfalls of Darth Vader as he slowly forced his way out of the rubble he had been buried in made up his mind for him. “You better not die, damn it!” he barked, before he turned and made a break for it, sprinting down the street.

He made it a dozen paces before he felt something grasp at his throat, crushing his windpipe with a vice-like grip. He coughed and sputtered, gasping and choking as his strides turned into a stumble and he crashed to his knees, breathlessly grasping at the briefcase in his hands.

Before his eyes, the grim grinning face of Gengar slowly materialized out of the ground. “Gyehehehehe….think I’ll be taking this,” he sneered, reaching for the case. Try as he might to resist, the suffocating youth couldn’t maintain his grip for more than a few seconds.

The Prisoner staggered up next to his partner, sagging slightly in the shoulders and shuddering as bits of scorched black skin flaked off with every movement.

Then the suffocating feeling of choking around Bakugo’s throat faded. He sucked in a deep breath, and lunged forward to grab the case with one hand. “You’re not...getting this…!” he rasped hoarsely, his free hand lighting up with a sizzling crackle.

The Prisoner’s head-flame turned a bright yellow, and he grabbed his ghostly ally and dove aside into a rough tumble just in time to avoid the huge cone of explosive force that nearly engulfed them both.

Clutching the case to his chest, Bakugo rose to stand on shaky legs and staggered away as fast as he could.


19 Contestants Remain

Katsuki Bakugo has attained the Super Crown. PM with information coming soon.

Darth Vader has the Power Fist.
Dr. Caustic has Euclid’s C-Finder.
The Prisoner has Anubis.
Gengar has Tenseiga.
Darth Vader used the Super Ring.

Dr. Caustic has used one application of Focus.
Bakugo has used one application of Focus.
Midoriya has used his Exceptional Affinity to use his United States of Smash consumable.

Darth Vader has suffered a shattered rib cage and his life support system is heavily damaged (Insane Injury; reduced to Major by use of the Super Ring), as well as numerous busted and damaged parts in his mechanical limbs (Major Injury).

Bakugo has suffered several major bruises (Story Injury), several fractured and cracked ribs (Minor Injury), and a fractured leg (Minor Injury), as well as a partially force-crushed windpipe (Minor Injury).

Midoriya has suffered several bruises and cuts across most of his body (Story Injury) as well as a severe burn on his chest from the explosion (Minor Injury).

Gengar suffered nasty chemical burns and breathing damage from the improvised gas grenades (Minor Injury) used by Caustic.

The Prisoner has suffered from severe burns and abrasions to most of its body from laser-beam exposure (Major Injury all together). Anubis has learned from this experience...

Dr. Caustic has suffered minor sprains and bruises from his background antics and efforts (Story Injury), and a cracked rib from being violently tackled down by Midoriya (Minor Injury).
 
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King Shark

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Suddenly, the idea of a stack of pancakes at the end of this seemed a little more real.

The teleportation whisked him back from whence he came and just as quickly as everything had erupted it had faded away leaving only a silence in its place. The silence, in turn, felt unnatural after the cacophony of explosives, yells, screams, and general discord that had greeted him in the little City of Chaos tucked away in the bloodiest corner of the island. What a cast that had been there! Before the events of midday, Bakugo had felt in a slump. Getting stabbed had put a bit of a damper on his morning, but Hell, after breakfast? Things had turned right around!

Well, mostly. There were still some hang-ups.

Lying there on the side of the road like a deer hit by a car, Bakugo propped himself up on his side. Just as a precautionary measure he activated his scouter, too. Then, after ensuring that there was no one placing him in immediate jeopardy, the young victor took a physical inventory.

Immediately noticeable were the effects of what he could only assume was a parting attack from his most dangerous foe in that fray. The man in black - whose Quirk was tough to pin down but seemed steeped in some sort of psionic or psycho-kinetic wizardry - must have seized him by the throat with his...brain...hand in some kind of last ditch revenge strike.

Piled on top of that immediate discomfort was the sorry state of affairs that were his ribs. He probed tenderly along them until he came towards the bottom three, or maybe four, which felt like xylophone keys with cracks and chips across their surface. The explosive teen winced, and quickly stopped assessing his ribs. Best to just kind of...push that simmering pot back towards the back burner.

Lastly, bringing himself up to a stand while still clutching his prized case, Baku felt something protest painfully against his weight down in his left leg. It was tough to tell how bad the injury was exactly, and he had learned his lesson about experimenting with fractured bones a few seconds ago with his ribcage. He shifted his weight onto the leg, decided that he could force himself to walk on it, took a couple of test-steps away from the road and towards the lake ahead, then stopped.

Altogether he wasn’t half as fucked up as that beam sword wearing ass-wipe from the city. He’d decked that sad-sack a good one, and that strike from Deku? Phew! Hot damn! Talk about a home-run! Remembering the limp lord spiraling through the air brought up a sense of elation and triumph...quickly followed by frustration and mild panic. DEKU. That fucking nerd! Popping up out of nowhere, as usual, and inserting himself into the spotlight when he, Katsuki Bakugo, had already done most of the leg work. Wasn’t that just typical of him...how could he not be on the island? After all, he was a nuisance, and by some declaration of the universe that Bakugo would not and could not understand...the two of them seemed bound together by fate.

For this reason, he knew what came next. Just as his gut had told him to head North, he knew that wherever he headed next, he would encounter Midoriya.

He pushed the thought from his head before it irritated him past the point of savoring his victory.

Which, to that end, left a small piece of unfinished business. The case! There was a distinct feeling that welled up in Bakugo as he gazed down upon his hard won prize. The case was large, and heavy even for him...and he was in pretty damn good shape, if he did say so himself. And he did say so, whenever someone needed reminding of it. In addition, the case sported a series of lights which, though previously amber, had turned a distinct shade of green at some point during the scuffle.

One button on the display in particular demanded his attention, and drew Bakugo’s finger in as if guided by an unseen force. When he pressed it, the case opened with a hiss of hydraulics and opened its maw to reveal…

A crown!?

“Oh, this prize was made for me!” Bakugo cackled, clasping his hands around its golden circumference with greedy fervor. “Come to the King, baby!”

His eyes flashed hungrily, and he stood tall over the case to admire the crown in the afternoon sun. Then with all the entitled pomp and poise expected of him, Katsuki Bakugo donned the crown.

...there was a feeling, then. A feeling that, try as he might later, Bakugo would never find the words to explain. The best he could come up with was that it felt as if someone had taken something about the puzzle that was himself and everything that encapsulated him...and then rearranged it.

And what came out of that rearrangement was something entirely different. He held out his hands, feeling that they were somehow changed, and beheld the spectacle they’d become. He’d grown..claws!? And in addition to that, his hands looked...different. Somehow more...delicate, and slender. As if he’d…

As if she’d…

Suddenly, her eyes widened, and Bakugo realized what felt so different. Her legs, the injured one now feeling somehow far better, carried her quickly to the shore of the nearby lake whereupon she thrust her head out over the top of it and stared down at her reflection. A sleek, slender, sassy looking teenaged girl gazed back up at her...him...what was he!? She!? He was now she!

Bakugo looked down at herself, eyed her form - now curvy and desirable - and fought down a sudden surge of attraction that made her feel a little dizzy, and very confused. She poked her head back out over the water cautiously to confirm what she had seen, just to be certain, just to know that it was real.

And it was.

Atop lengthened blonde hair which framed a wily and feminine face sat the crown. Looming over her shoulders was what appeared to be the outer rim of a huge shell, which she reached back and felt the perimeter of to make some sense of the thing. Indeed, she now sported an enormous tortoise shell atop her back, complete with ominous spikes and all the bells and whistles.

She grimaced, and noticed that canines had lengthened as well. They’d turned into full-on, honest-to-Arbiter FANGS. Fucking fangs! And claws! And a shell! ...and a tail, too! She could feel it slumped against the ground with nerve endings and everything. A whole other appendage to get used to…

Despite all of this, the Princess Bakugo felt powerful. Rather than disarmed - as her first instinct had pushed her to be - by her transformation, she was instead bolstered by what she was now FEELING. Strength in her limbs that felt different from before...superior, even. A pride that extended past her victory, and instead put down roots in her soul. The soul of royalty, which had always been there, and now felt somehow synergized with the crown she had won. Maybe this was the woman she was always meant to be? Maybe Princess Bakugo was a part of her in ways she had never realized?

Encouraged in a way she hadn’t expected, PB stepped out onto the water with a test-foot. Somehow she knew what would happen, and her foot didn’t disappoint. Even after placing weight on it, it somehow did not break the surface of the water for a few seconds. The crowd fed her an instinct, and she in turn could feel herself speaking back to it. It was as if they were two soul mates meeting for the first time, who had locked eyes and known right away that they belonged together.

Bakugo remembered her earlier statement...she’d said…’come to the King, baby,’.

Amending it now, she spat a plume of triumphant flame into the air and smirked. “Come to the Princess, baby!”

Then she pumped her fists into the air, danced about a little with her newly empowered and far less hurt feeling body, and set out in a new direction, towards what her scouter told her would be the next easy mark.

The easiest mark, in fact.

Because it was dead.

 
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Shallan Davar

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We lopes along through the shadows, hiding from the angry yellow face as best we are able, precious. There are no tunnels! No caves! We must stay upon the surface, to be blinded and scalded by its wrath. Poor Sméagol, we does not wish to be out in the waking hours, but our throat it is parched precious, we must have something to drink!

We follows the ravines, follows the cracks, they will leads us to water, yes, they will leads us to a nice pool perhaps, with a juicy fish to chew, yes. We hungers too, we realizes, as we creeps further, ever further. We will need something to eat as well when the pale face comes out. Focus, precious, mustn’t get distracted, water first, a drink for our poor throat, and a quick splash!

We are anxious now, we wants to feel the cool water on our skin, but something halts us in our hurries. What… what is it precious? That smell… We knows that smell… we knows it well! We turns aside in our hurries precious, We follows the smell of blood, the smell of a feast! Soon enough we spots it, Precious, there upon the rocks! Head’s all gone, all burst upon the stoneses, but the rest precious? What about the rest of it? What a blessing precious, a blessing for poor Sméagol! Is it tender? Is it fresh? Perhaps we will eats first after all!

We scrambles down the cliffs towards it precious, our mouth watering even now. We approaches carefully, finds a hideaway amongst the rocks. We waits and looks for trouble, no trapses, no waiting hunters looking for us, precious? We waits at the rock, fingers dancing, precious, we can almost tastes it now, precious! With a whine, we scurries out quickly, and grabs a hold of its legses. It is heavy precious, but still fresh, still raw!

We drags it out of the open swiftly precious, under a leaning stone, where we can eats without being spotted, yes precious! Its heavy precious, all leather and muscle, but we are famished precious, so famished, and our hunger makes us strong! We reaches the shelter of the rocks soon enough, and we lies it there. Our brow wrinkles as we looks at it, precious. What is it?

We thoughts it was a pale elvses from a distance, precious, we saw its long hair scattered about on the rocks… but its too muscley to be an elvses, too purple… is it rotten precious? Is it cursed? We hesitates, mustn’t eat evil meats precious, that would be the end of poor Sméagol! But our hunger gnaws at us as we looks at it, precious. Maybe we tries it anyway!

We reaches for an arm, precious, still limber, still good, precious, and we takes a bite then spits the arm back out. It burns us precious! The blood is cursed, we can tastes the dark magic in it! This body taunts us precious, it tries to kill us when we tries to eats it! Tricksey, wicked elvses, they puts a curse on themselves, then dies, just to mock us!

We smacks it a few times with our metal, and one of our thumps creates a curious sound. We stops hitting the body, our eyes blinking slightly. We notices something in its handses, a hammer, a little, little hammer, We lifts it easily and examines it, judging its worthiness for us. We spots a hole in the top of it precious, and peers inside, perhaps we will find a secret hidden inside, precious?

With a puff of air it stabs us precious! Pokes us in our poor innocent eye with its hidden finger! We howls, then drops the false weapon. We claps our handses over our mouth, mustn’t draw attention, precious! We must stay silent while the yellow face watches! With a growl we kicks away the tricksey hammer, We was only looking precious, there was no need for it to attacks us! We leaves it there on the rocks. That was not the sound we heard, precious, we heard something else! We paws around the body, and feels something hard in its pocketses! What has it got? We reaches our fingers inside and pulls out a pouch, yes precious, a little skinned pouch, with which to hold something precious. We peers inside, eyes blinking at the blue shimmers it makes at us, precious. What is it?

We worms our fingers into the pouch and pulls it out. Precious it is Freezing! It eats our heat precious, steals the warmth from our fingers like the coldest winters! We almost throws it away too precious… but we hesitates. It feels… right… to keep it with us precious. It feels… familiar. It is NOT the precious, not the least, but… it reminds us of what it felt like. We remembers what it was like before Baggins stole our precious from us! We grips it tight in our cold and frigid hands, precious, It wants our heat, and we wants its wholeness…

We huffs and whines, but eventually we puts the stone back in its pouch precious. We must be careful! The precious will keep us safe, and we must not betray the precious! Never! Never! We smacks our head with our freezing hands precious, must focus! Focus Sméagol! We seeks water first, a pool where we can hide from the yellow face!

We leaves the body there, without feasting… Not good to eat cursed elf meat! Must hurry! Away, before others finds us here! We leaves it all behind… but we takes the cold rock… It is not the precious! But it is… pretty…
 
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The early afternoon peace that had settled upon the lakeshore came to an abrupt end, as a sudden flash of blinding light and a loud pop signalled the return of the ghostly duo. The Prisoner still smoldered a bit from his run-in with the sky-borne death beam, while Gengar's breathing was a bit worse for wear. Worse than that, they hadn't even managed to take home the prize, a failure which likely grated on them both. At the very least, Anubis was quite vocal about his displeasure.

Visible only to his host, the translucent dog-man paced back and forth irritably and 'spoke' in his peculiarly gravelly voice.

"Damn it! We were so close! Then that ancient bastard just HAD to drop the sun on us! If I weren't such a bad-ass, that would've been the end of you, and then-"

Anubis bit his tongue, catching himself before saying too much.

"In any case, you need to be more careful from now on, friend," the last bit practically dripping with sleaze. "Your goose was very nearly, and quite literally, cooked back there!"

It was true, and The Prisoner shifted its one-eyed gaze to survey its form. Skin blackened, even the most casual of motions caused it to creak like old leather and crack, revealing the sickly red flesh beneath. Not that such really mattered much for the corpse-candle, and it was certainly unsightly, and doubtlessly caused it to smell like a diaper fire. Thankfully, neither undead possessed a nose.

Shifting its gaze to its friend, The Prisoner blinked in surprise as it found the hedgehog-like shade staring at it as well. He spoke, and the words were far more hesitant than any he had used before.

"Wa-was that real?" Gengar asked, a clawed hand scratching a bit at the side of its head.

"I mean, of course it was. One look at you, and yeah. That really happened. But…"

The Pokémon appeared anxious or nervous about continuing, but seemed to muster its nerve and spoke on.

"So… like, it isn't just me, right? I kind of felt like, for a while there, that whole scene had played out with two other people in our place… and then the world figured out it fucked up and swapped us in. You feel it too, right?"

The Prisoner blinked slowly, seeming to process the exchange. A tense moment passed, before it nodded in agreement. There HAD been a sort of feeling of deja vu in that whole debacle. The ghost Pokémon snorted and sighed, looking away with crossed arms.

"Yeah yeah. I keep on forgetting you're the quiet type. Not much point in talking to you, huh? Just going to get a charades show in response."

As The Prisoner's shoulders sagged sadly, Gengar threw up its hands, waving them and attempted to calm his friend.

"No offense! Sorry! I'm just frustrated, you know? It ain't your fault you can't talk. And I shouldn't blame you for it neither."

He sighed again, sheepishly this time. A charred hand on his shoulder helped ease the Pokémon's mood, however, as he looked over at the upwardly-curved pupil of his fellow, a look which seemed to say 'It's ok. I forgive you', even without the words spoken. Gengar's smile returned and he floated back a bit.

"Alright, enough moping around! Let's get going!"
 

Fennec Shand

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“Kacchan… t-take it!! Run!!”

Izuku Midoriya clung on tight to the old, gas-mask sporting man’s waist. He watched as his friend, against all odds, managed to slip out of sight, eliciting something between curses and groans from the not-so-good doctor. The green-haired youth’s gaze shot up toward Dr. Caustic and he glared at him, lips parting to shout some cheesy moral platitudes, when he felt the elder man’s fist collide with his already broken nose.

“Fuck!” he shouted, stumbling backwards. His grip around Caustic’s waist slackened, and the doctor raised another fist, aiming to finish off this petulant child. Before he managed to connect once again with Midoriya’s mangled countenance, the would-be gyro chef felt an uncomfortable lurching in his stomach. He watched as the environment around him, Apex Legend included, whisked away before his very eyes. He fell, colliding in seconds with the ground in a forest clearing he quickly recognized as the site of he and Sigma’s second bout.

His chest skidded across the ground first, and he felt the burns beneath his t-shirt light up with pain. He resisted the urge to shout, biting his tongue and instead flipping over onto his back, clutching the inflamed area. He lay in the middle of a pretty open clearing, and by now the sun was high overhead, casting daylight across the island -- already putting him in a pretty vulnerable position. No doubt if he’d let himself yelp in pain, one of these monstrous other tycoons might find him and put an end to his culinary quest before it even really began. And then how would he fulfill Kacchan’s last request, back at the battlefield of the Easter Egg?

“You better not die, damn it!”

Izuku’s brow furrowed as he lay on the ground. I won’t.

That was news worth dwelling on, though -- Kacchan was here. Somewhere on the island, his longtime rival wandered about, just as lost and alone as he’d found himself. The existence of his frenemy in whatever this competition confused Deku more, since as far as he’d known, Katsuki Bakugo had never held any entrepreneurial ambitions, at least not in regards to opening a restaurant; no, the spiky-haired boy had always pursued something else. A nobler profession. The name sat on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t place it.

H-... He-... Ugh. All that popped into his head was, again, the word gyro. Deku knew that wasn’t a clue towards remembering Kacchan’s aspirations. Rather, he felt like his subconscious was at work, reminding him of the hard task here: keeping himself straight. He knew his quest, his purpose here on this island -- discovering young Bakugo’s would be simple, anyway. He’d just have to find him and ask.

“Then that’s what I’ll do,” he muttered to himself, in classic Midoriya fashion, pushing himself up. He glanced toward the trees and spotted his bag, in the exact place he’d left it, and quickly sprinted over and took a seat next to it and pulled out the map. Whatever mysteries this competition threw at him, the time for figuring them out alone was long past. He needed an ally, and Kacchan was better than nothing. Sure -- from what he could remember, their relationship had never really been picture perfect. Izuku guessed some might say it had always been tenuous, what with their unrelenting rivalry tainting every interaction they had; hell, even when he’d wrapped himself around the doctor in order to let Bakugo get away, the blonde had still allotted some precious breath toward calling him a ‘nerd.’

Wait a second, Izuku realized, he got away. He blinked, recalling once more the image of his explosive not-friend sprinting away from the scene of the battle. As long as no one else had managed to get to him, then that meant Katsuki had probably managed to get out of there with the Easter Egg! A smile crossed Deku’s face, and he nodded, focusing his eyes down on the map again. This was good, right? This was a good situation. As long as Kacchan was willing to team up with him, then maybe they’d be fine! He might be in for some trouble if the explosive boy aimed to use whatever the prize was on him instead of letting him join up, but he figured there was an eight-to-one chance Kacchan was thinking the same thing he was: that the familiar was endlessly better than the unknown.

...he facepalmed, wishing he felt like the odds were better.

No matter. He didn’t really have any other choice. He’d been sitting idly in this clearing for too long, and he’d undoubtedly made some enemies by now that would be loathe to let him keep wandering unscathed in this forest. He stuffed the map into the bag and slung it over his shoulder as he stood, glancing around and wondering which direction to head off in. With any luck, he’d manage to keep himself out of sight and out of mind until he ran into Bakugo, and avoid any encounters with others, especially some who’d already met the receiving end of his Quirk. Certainly neither of the guys with breathing problems would be all too pleased to see him after he’d done a number on both their abdomens -- assuming the black-armored one was even still capable of fighting -- and he certainly didn’t want to run into Sigma or the flame-headed dude again. Why were there so many creepy looking guys in this competition?

“Doesn’t matter, Midoriya,” he whispered to himself. “Just stay out of sight and you’ll be fine.” He nodded, and plastered a smile on his face. Even in the midst of this weird game, he had to smile. That was the only way to push through -- keep on smiling, keep hidden, and keep his two goals in sight: find Kacchan, and become the greatest gyro chef the world had ever seen.

He left the clearing behind as the sun began to set, bag slung over his shoulders and kitchen knives at the ready. Feast your eyes on this, he giggled, and disappeared into the shadows of the forest, the unmistakable face of Katsuki Bakugo at the forefront of his mind.

He’d know him when he saw him.
 

The Man in Red

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#001 The Prisoner & #003 Gengar vs #017 King​


The Prisoner and his ghostly ally made their way along. Across a bridge, then skirting around the edge of the lake, until they came to another river. They were just debating on how to cross it when the larger of the pair caught sight of something. The flames on his head turned a flickering shade of blue-green as he reached down to prod at Gengar, and then pointed toward the source of his discovery.

A lone man, on the banks of the river. Bedraggled and waterlogged, gasping and spluttering as he choked and spat up water. He looked absolutely miserable, though the duffel bag at his side clearly marked him as another contestant in this game.

Gengar’s expression went from curious to malicious in the span of half a second. “Heh...lookit that guy. This one’ll be easy.” He slowly reached around to tug out the remote control for his miniature tank. “I’ll get his attention. Then you get in there and...take care of him,” the ghost sinisterly chortled, plopping the thing down on the grass, and set to work.

King coughed and gagged again as another wave of river water surged up his throat, along with a renewed feeling of nausea. ”What am I even doing here?!” he mentally sobbed. This was no place for someone like him; he just wanted to go home and play video games, not be here fighting to the death for no reason!

The grating, static-filled sound of tank engines drew him bolt upright, whipping around to stare with wide eyes and a face drained of all courage at the source. The diminutive tank rolled up toward him, spewing out sounds of certain death as it raised the barrel of its main gun...and pew! The pellet gun let its payload fly, striking King square in the forehead and making him yelp, toppling over onto his back clutching at his head in agony.

A shadow fell over the tormented hero, and he looked up to see the mono-eyed form of the Prisoner staring back down at him, purple flame burning fiercely. For a moment there was silence between them. The Edelweiss chunked out another pellet into the side of King’s head. The Prisoner slowly raised one arm, holding the shining blade of Anubis.

King screamed in blood-curdling fear.

The Prisoner’s head went from purple to yellow in a flash, its eye snapping open widely as it reflexively struck down with the sword.

Red blood sprayed over the grass as a clean gash was sliced open in the strongest hero’s body, tearing through skin, flesh, muscle and even bone…

King was on his feet and staggered half a dozen steps away, clutching numbly at the stump of his left arm. A few inches below the shoulder, it was simply gone; severed cleanly as if by surgical precision. He sobbed numbly, tears streaming down his face. His control stick hand! His life as a gamer was over!

He howled in anguish and agony, slowly dropping to his knees.

Gengar slowly hovered up next to the Prisoner. “Uuuh….this is kinda pathetic…” he whispered to his partner. “Let’s...let’s just, uh…” He tugged on his partner’s leg, starting to ever so slowly back away and flee the scene

The Prisoner looked down at the ghost, back to the trembling and grossly sobbing man before him, and seemed to deflate a little. That...really was kind of pathetic. He similarly backed away, turning after a few paces to march away properly, with only the mangled howls of King echoing behind him as he hurried to catch his retreating partner.


19 Contestants Remain

….King has suffered the loss of his arm (Insane Injury). He will never be the same again.
 
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The Man in Red

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#013 Sigma vs #010 Weiss​


Moving away from the bizarre encounter of the convenience store, Weiss stuck to a dirt road she had come across through the plains. More exposed and easier to be seen, of course, but...also a whole lot easier to traverse.

The immense bulk of her unexpected weapon having vanished into the oddity of the backpack was also a great relief.

She passed by a stretch of land with the light of late afternoon sun turning a distant lake into a sheet of fire and paused as the hairs on her neck suddenly stood on end. She looked around tensely, her injuries sending out fresh waves of radiating aches. “Someone...is here…” she all but whispered.

“How very astute of you.” From within a stand of trees, the hulking form of Sigma emerged at a dead run, scattering foliage and tree limbs like so much dust in the wind in front of him. He struck out like an angry bull, a fist larger than Weiss’s head very nearly removing her from the contest had the huntress not frantically ducked out of the way.

She scrambled back, legs shaking as her breath came out in sharp pants from the sudden burst of movement. “Who...or what are you?” she demanded, her eyes narrowed as she stared daggers at the immense reploid. “Some kind of…” Her expression darkened even further. “...netnavi.”

Sigma barked a laugh. “Don’t make me laugh. The fact you have no idea who I am is already enough to consider your death warrant signed.” He lumbered forward, crackling green light arcing along his body and radiating out to turn the grass near to him to ash. “So let’s get this over with.”

He blurred forward, swinging a fist up in a vicious uppercut, and immediately following with an unexpectedly agile roundhouse kick. The young huntress evaded the first, and brought her right arm up in a desperate defense, concentrating immensely and...sparks flew as the massive boot struck, sending her skidding back a dozen paces through the field. She swore almost silently under her breath, the feeling nearly gone out of her arm from that impromptu block, but more than glad that was all she suffered.

What she was much less glad for was the rippling shockwave of green lightning that tore across the field toward her, making her hastily roll to one side and land sprawled on her side as her breath deserted her.

Sigma stalked toward his temporarily downed foe, leering like an insane youth about to squad a rat caught in a trap. “The last idiotic child at least put up a fight,” he mocked, as he lifted a boot to crush her beneath it.

“Don’t you know it’s not nice to pick on hurt folks, chrome dome?” The blue backpack on Weiss’s back rustled, and in a flash the red-haired and green-eyed form of before emerged again, sporting a wicked grin -- and a huge, blood-caked chainsaw already revved up and ready in her hands. “Sometimes, they got friends!” And she swung the deadly implement in a huge arc.

Sparks flew and metal shards scattered among the grass as a long tear was opened up in the reploid commander’s leg from heel to knee, making him curse and topple backward.

“See? Got your back, precious,” Kazooie snarked, nudging Weiss’s head with one elbow. “Now get up and go get him; I wanna keep carvin’ him up!”

Weiss could only wheeze softly as she managed to get her knees under her. “I...have never been so glad...to have someone so obnoxious...with me…” She forced herself upright, cradling her broken arm as she whirled around to glare angrily at Sigma.

“C’mon, let’s go kick him while he’s down! Tried to do it to you.”

Weiss was inclined to agree with that course of action, and dashed across the short distance to hop up and crash down with her, admittedly not all that considerable, weight directly onto the downed mechanoid warrior’s chest. She repeatedly stomped and kicked at him and his stupid, bald head, only pausing to lean forward and let her avian friend wildly swing away with the chainsaw, cackling in mad glee as she ripped several new tears and gaping wounds in the armored frame of the reploid.

“Enough of this!” He roared, and with a surge of energy that green lightning arcing around him exploded outward, leaving a crater in the earth and hurling his obnoxious foes away from him. He regained his feet in an instant, face twisted into an angry snarl. Sparks flew from countless gashes and jagged tears in his body, his once regal cape shredded and torn. There was a particularly ugly wound nearly splitting his face in two, revealing the much more angular and ragged mechanical skull beneath the synthetic face. “I was just going to beat you into the dirt and let you learn your lesson...but not any more.”

He thundered forward, fists flying in a savage frenzy. Punches, slaps, grasping lunges, bolts of energy and lances of electrical rage flew in equal measure.

It was only by virtue of Weiss and Kazooie opting to split up, presenting two targets to further infuriate and detract from his normal precision, that Sigma didn’t tear them both asunder. That, at least, was what he blamed it on.

But the end result was the same...the blade of that chainsaw roaring and shrieking as it erupted through his chest from behind, sparking and spitting out metal shards as it struggled to carve upward. His massive boot struck out, striking the irritating bird with a savage kick to launch her away.

...and leaving him completely open for the huge laser which engulfed him the moment the bird was clear. The blast produced a mangled, snarling roar of anguish and rage from the cybernetic behemoth, and when it cleared...he was gone. Only the sputtering form of the chainsaw, and many singed footsteps in the grass leading away, remained.


19 Contestants Remain

Teamwork! Weiss has sustained severe bruising and fracturing to her right arm (Minor Injury) and further burns and charring over much of her front side (Minor Injury).

Sigma has suffered the equivalent of a broken leg (Major Injury), several dozen gashes and cuts across his body (Minor Injury), a nearly-bisected face (Major Injury), a nasty case of impalement through the chest (Insane Injury), and a bad case of ‘explosions’ to his general everything (Minor Injury).
 
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Rebecca Chambers

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The two mechanical contestants had departed from the oceanside hours ago, crossing through hilly country dotted with woods and rocks. They avoided the winding asphalt road branching off from the abandoned docking yard like the plague, sticking to the shade of the trees and the natural cover of the sloping terrain. It was slower going than it might have been following the paved road directly, but neither trusted the wide open spaces surrounding it— all too aware of the potential threat posed by unseen snipers and enemies waiting behind distant knolls of lush grass.

Other than the incessant paranoia looming over their heads, though, the trip was relatively peaceful. The island was, in Pathfinder’s opinion, stunningly beautiful. The air was rife with cheerful birdsong, a light breeze tickling over his blocky frame from time to time. The MRVN strutted about with a definite spring in his step, a stark contrast to the lurksome stalking of his simulacrum friend.

Pathfinder was happy to have Revenant at his side. Even if he was a little scary. Well… maybe more than a little scary. More like very scary. Fielding threats of dismemberment wasn’t exactly Path’s favorite pastime, but he supposed that maybe this was just how Revenant talked to his friends normally...

Not that he had ever really... observed Revenant trying very hard to make friends, at least not during the Apex Games. That made the MRVN a little sad. It also sparked a newfound sense of determination in his processor: maybe he could show Revenant how to make friends. After all, Pathfinder was already his friend! It couldn’t be that hard to convince others that Revenant was just as awesome as Pathfinder felt he was!

After quite a while of walking and failing to spot any other contestants, the two stumbled upon a wide river. Clear blue water flowed beneath the underside of the stone bridge stretched across it, gurgling and sputtering as it crashed against the many jagged rocks lining the edges. Traversing this bridge brought them to what appeared to be a pleasant patch of farmland, tilled earth and golden fields gently rolling over the previously rugged countryside.

They continued onward, following alongside the river’s bank where it had looped back around to feed into the ocean. Eventually, they had to cross the river again, this time without the aid of a man-made bridge. It was a bit harder seeing as this section of the river was dotted with fearsome rapids, a thick sheen of white foam coursing across the top of the suddenly turbulent waters and generating a steady roar, but with the help of Pathfinder’s trusty grapple, they were able to accomplish it with only a few bangs and dents.

Finally, the two chose to stop beside a crossroads at Revenant’s insistence, hiding out amongst a small copse of oak trees settled beside the road.

“Get over here,” the simulacrum growled at Pathfinder, who’d been somewhat distracted by a lovely looking farmhouse nestled over a hill in the distance. “I’ve got a feeling about this spot.”

Trotting over to stand beside his friend, Pathfinder’s head swiveled around, taking in the pleasantly shaded area. There were even a few rocks propped up beside the trees, big boulders perfect for crouching behind.

“I like it here,” said the MRVN, gesturing a little with his staff-sized weapon held aloft in one hand. “It’s much prettier than a lot of the arenas we’ve been in, isn’t it? Very green!”

Revenant gave a dismissive grunt, settling into a crouch beside one of the boulders. Yellow eyes glared at their surroundings, the slow, calculating glance of a predator searching for his next target, before snapping suddenly to Pathfinder’s still-standing form. With a muted snarl, he reached and snagged the MRVN’s arm, dragging him down to his level.

“Can’t admire the scenery if you’re dead, idiot,” he groused. “I thought you were built for recon.”

Pathfinder perked up. “That’s true, friend. But this feels… different from the Games. I haven’t seen anyone but you since arriving here. Do you think we need to be more aggressive?”

The simulacrum shifted, an oddly human impulse, continuing to survey the peaceful sprawl of countryside around them. He felt… antsy without something to rend apart. Of course, the cheerful MRVN beside him could always serve as a nice substitute…

“Not yet,” Revenant answered at length, flexing his clawed fingers. “What supplies do you have?”

“I’m glad you asked, friend,” Pathfinder said, the smiley face on his screen flickering for a split-second— briefly flashing a starry-eyed grin. “As you can see, I have my drone friend here. It follows me everywhere I go, letting me show off my moves to the cameras!”

The MRVN turned briefly to wave up at the drone. It hovered a short distance away, barely scraping against the lowest boughs of the trees sheltering over their position, its blue and silver paint job glistening in the sunlight. The thing seemed sleek enough to pose as a decent fighter craft, and it might’ve been if it was, y’know. Life-sized.

“Does it do anything... else?”

Pathfinder seemed confused. He stared placidly at Revenant. “What else would it do, friend?”

“... Right. What about that stick?”

The MRVN looked at his staff, which he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to use, sadface. “A slingshot! It doesn’t seem very special...”
 

Mad Maggie

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The so called Lord limped slowly behind me, smoke trailing from his sparking limbs. He still projected an aura of confidence and menace, but the irregular hissing and valve failure of his life support cracked the illusion. Like a statue after eons of damage, his proud visage was marred by that insipid child's attacks. I shook my wrist, still sore from the impact of punching his alarmingly solid face. Blood pooled in my mouth and I coughed messily, spitting around my mask.

Pausing, I listened for sounds of movement and watched the horizon being polluted by the aftermath of our brawl. "I think we're safe enough for the meantime, Lord Vader. Let me repair your armor. I have a history in robotics, biochemistry, and medical science as well as my toxin work."

Vader's breathing was slow and labored. "Do it quickly, doctor. And well." The threat went unsaid as I smoothly let it gloss over my head, unperturbed. I was practiced at playing roles and pretending to be unassuming until the moment came. Here it was.

The damage he'd taken made Vader a liability now. The reality of the broken man held together with science was showing through the spectre of death. And this would be easy.

I busied myself pulling the panel open gingerly, inspecting the impact damage and the burns. There was a substantial amount of damage, but it could be repaired in such a way as to actively quicken its user's death. "Fixing" the regulator pumps and reconnecting biowaste output to the biofluid recyclers would poison the sith lord.

It took several moments, but I was finished with the modifications and repairs before Vader could suspect much besides the fact I'd gotten his breathing regular once more. He staggered to his feet, starting to march forward again. "Keep moving." His reply was terse and strained, still obviously struggling.

I followed behind, watching his movement for the falter of internal pain that his deadened neuro receptors would send out as they realized the body was slowly shutting down to toxic shock. And then I struck.
 

Demetri Malius

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“Man, I think I’m really getting used to this weird flying gear. We swept up that one guy no problem. How do I look?” Mirage swaggered about the ridge they sat at, having practiced a bit with his gift from the Man in Red. Occasionally dupes flew out and launched into the distance, destined to be either shot or just stand idly once they were out of sight. The curse of being a mirage of a Mirage.

“About as stupid as you think you look. And remember that not everyone is going to be that easy. ” Wraith sniped with a subtle smirk, tapping at the computer in her lap. Her nose wrinkled as she squinted at the screen.

“Thanks! I think?” He cocked his head a bit. “I still think we should have gone for that special event, who knows what crazy loot they had there?”

“I think it’s a bit early to be diving headfirst into the enemy. We just have to follow the right path and we will have plenty of time for you to show off your discount jetpack and fancy toys.”

“You’re just jealous because I got the cool drops while you got a lame computer and some shiny armor. Besides, you know we would have won that fight!”

“And by won, you mean you throwing yourself into the fight while I try to stop you from dying, most likely risking my own life in the process and probably coming out with a broken ribcage?”

“Whatever, you have your shiny knight armor, what do you think you are gonna get hit by, an orbital death cannon?”

Wraith responded with a dead stare, clearly not in the mood after fussing with the computer for the past three hours.

“Alright fine, but if we come across anything else, I call dibs!” He shouted, thumb pointing to his chest in some imaginary triumph.

“If you could shut up for just about five seconds maybe I could-” she paused before a smile crept on her lips.

“Maybe you could what?”

She gave a sigh as her excitement was dulled by his response. “Maybe find the person that won the fight. They had to have taken some hits, so we might catch them by surprise.”

“I guess the computer isn’t too lame then.”

“No, it still is. This thing is a headache to work with, and we burned daylight trying to figure it out. Hopefully, it’s worth it. Let’s head out.”
 

Karl Jak

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Once upon a time, the world must have felt like a much smaller place for a whole lot of people.

Karl sat a little uncomfortably at the stool. The man’s jacket was hung near the door he’d strolled through, and his elbows were planted on the countertop in front of him. All around him, the booths and other stools stood empty. Whether they had ever held warm bodies in them, Karl couldn’t be one hundred percent certain. He was, after all, just another Karl, so he didn’t necessarily have the magic juju needed to see whether this was recycled or pieced together at the behest of some someone with a god complex.

The executive producer’s eyes found themselves drawn to a kettle that sat on the stove.

“Eh, piss off,” the man muttered as surveyed the diner once more. In his head, he imagined it would normally be filled with penny-pinching young people, a crowd trying to blunt their hangovers with questionably greasy food, and a group of regulars in the form a various truck drivers with numerous vices.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d assume that the waitress was a woman in her mid-forties with either one of those raspy voices from years or too much around the waist. Perhaps some combination of both? Likely, her husband was the guy who would cook, and he probably did so without the requisite equipment. Maybe he wore a sleeveless shirt underneath an apron that had been singed and stained from years of tossing burgers and piles of assorted meats?

In some weird way, this place reminded Karl more of his original home than anything he’d seen in the last … seven years? Yea, it was probably that many years for the audience at home. For Karl, it was almost as if an eternity had passed since he’d made that last, shell-shocked stumble through the bombed-out streets of Central City. Now that he lived in a reality where there wasn’t the threat of a maniac undoing existence, Karl found himself enamored by all the itty-bitty bits and baubles just a wee bit more than he had elsewhere.

“I supposed it helps when you have the power to control your actual reality.” With a shrug, Karl Jak leaned over the counter to try and get a better line of sight toward the miniature fridge tucked underneath the worn wooden surface. Based on the fact that the building had lights and there was a little green diode shining brightly inside the fridge, Karl assumed he wasn’t barking up the wrong tree as he telekinetically flipped open the rubber-sealed door and plucked out a bottle.

With his eyes on the street outside the diner, Karl didn’t watch as the bottle lazily floated up onto the countertop and popped itself. From the far end of the countertop, a wooden coaster jiggled once on its rack before it skipped twice before settling beneath the descending bottle of chocolate milk. Glancing down, the executive producer smirked as he scooped up the drink by its neck and took a long drag on the contents. Once he had finished, he toasted to the air.

“To you, Mr. Sanderson,” he spoke softly before another sip. “And to all the others along the way.”
 

Masahir N'air

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Tokens
65
World
Mesa Roja
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Faction
The Thieves Guild |&| Babylonia
The synth grunted, listening closely to the information his recon-partner fed him on their weapons. He never lifted his eyes from surveying the fields and road ahead of them, even as he hoisted the black duffel bag from his back. The last thing he wanted after all this patient and stalking waiting was to be crept up on and ended before he even began.

“I’m sure they’re thrilled by our lack of bloodshed.” Revenant snarked off-handedly. If he was being honest, he wasn’t here for glory or fame or even recognition- he just enjoyed the rush of killing, the visceral feeling of destroying someone so permanently. To see the light driven from their desperate pleading eyes gave him a soul-deep sensation of closure and accomplishment. A thirst was quelled in the very pit of his being when he did so, but only momentarily. He shifted again in his contemplations. Those damn skinsuits had only one single thing on him.

When he put them in the dirt, they stayed down forever. They could finally rest, relinquished to the abyssal void on the other side.

When he fucked up and died, he was wiped, reformatted and written over. He was rebooted with little memory or perception of past lives, placed into a new carbon copy of his skeletal form... that was until the Andrades... Marcos and Alanza... Oh he remembered that day with perfectly encoded recall, the day every single one of his naive preconceptions about the world were shattered.

He yanked the duffle open, the poor zipper crying with adamant protest at being manhandled, and shoved the entire case in front of Pathfinder. The MRVN reached forward, optic widening with curiosity before he was sharply cut off again, a clawed hand grasping his wrist with a frightening amount of force.

“Don’t touch the water or the MRE heaters unless you want to be blown to pieces.” The nightmarish merc gave him a steely glance before lowering his hand and allowing Path to look into the bag.

“I’ve only got one weapon of substance. Haven’t found anything else worth using.” His amusement was drier than the scorched sand flats of Mesa Roja.

Again the MRVN reached into the bag, careful to heed his friend’s warning on the water and MREs. The bag was immaculately organized, everything of importance easily seen at a glance and more easily found in the rush of combat. First his burnished fingers brushed past a rough makeshift knife, made of a single piece of twisted scrap metal. Its edges were cruel and unrefined, a jagged tool not unlike the serrated teeth of an apex predator- though Path idly wondered if a beast with such teeth would need to see a dentist. He set it to the side, in the grass next to his friend.

Next he pulled a neatly folded length of crimson red... yarn? From the bag. How interesting! The MRVN mused internally. He really hadn’t figured Revenant to be one who partook in frivolous things like arts and crafts projects... but perhaps... this would be a good way to bond with the terse and intimidating hitman. The screen on his chest came to life with a starry-eyed smiley face.

“Wow friend! I didn’t realize you enjoyed Arts and Crafts!” His optimistic voice earned him an incredulous side-eyed glare.

“I don’t.”

The starry smiley flickered before changing to a frowning sad face- then right back to a sunny grin. Path raised a hand, an idea coming to mind. His attempts at true friendship would not be in vain! “May I use this yarn, friend?”

The simulacra grunted dismissively, plucking his scrap knife from between blades of grass. There really was no winning in this situation. Killing the abandoned MRVN would certainly feel good at the moment, but keeping him on the same side and playing by the ally rules was much more beneficial. “Yeah sure, whatever. Just pay attention to the road behind us or I’ll turn you into a slag heap myself.”

~ * * * ~​

The sun inched forward in the sky, but Revenant stayed fast to his post. He’d located a good-enough rock for his needs and had set to work refining the cutting edge of his blade. The soft and steady scrape-scrape-scrape of the edge being ground away set the rhythm of the afternoon, and soon enough the hitman was quietly humming along to the beat. The specter sat in that cozy little nook where the two boulders met for hours... just grinding away the steel and serenading himself with a haunting melody.

The oppressive trilling of cicadas did little to distract a star-struck Pathfinder, who sat in the grass, beaming up at the seven foot tall monstrosity. The scout had been occupied, busying himself with both watching the road for any opponents to fight, as well as patiently weaving leaves and vines and scraps of grass together. His little drone hovered around him, curious to study his activities. The smiley on his chest seemed to glow a bit brighter as the MRVN reached up and placed a little grass cowboy hat on top of the streaming drone.

“There you go friend! Dressed for success!” His orange optic darted down to consider two additional hats, woven into the same classically western shape as the drone’s, but bigger. His optic swiveled to beam at his friend and partner.

“You would look great in this hat, friend!” His statement was met by a sour glint.

“I am not wearing that.”

 
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