Day 3

[Sigmund Vrell]

Before the safe zone ejection

After a mutual agreement that someone else, probably that poor goblin child, would need their bracelet any more than either of them would, Sigmund had handed it over to Gascoigne and the hunter had gone off to give it away. The cultist, on the other hand, had his own mission that he needed to pursue. His hood pulled low, the priest stalked through the safe zones, one hand tucked into his robes.

His face hidden beneath his cowl, Sigmund couldn’t help but cringe at what he was about to do. Giving a shifty look around to make sure no one was watching, he rapped his knuckles on the door of the nearest barracks. A few moments of silence passed, in which he briefly considered changing his mind and making a break for it, but before he could make up his mind the door swung open.

“Can I help you?” A bored looking soldier asked, furrowing his brow a little at the stranger. Sucking in a raspy breath, the priest produced the item that he was smuggling beneath his cloak: the copy of Play, Boy magazine.

“I have been informed that someone here may be interested in exchanging this… thing for something that could be a little more helpful in the Abyss.” Sigmund murmured as he displayed the cover to the man. The soldier seemed to contemplate his offer for a second, chewing his lip before turning and heading back inside. The cultist silently cursed his luck. Of course, who would want something as perverse as th-

“Here you go.” The soldier whispered as he returned to the door, just loud enough for his bizarre dealer to hear him. The man gave a few glances either side of himself and behind him before placing a small canister into Sigmund’s hand. “If anyone asks, you don’t know me, and I didn’t give that to you.”

“I don’t know you.” The scion whispered back, pocketing his new… Whatever it was.

“That’s right.” The soldier grinned before sticking out his hand, into which the cultist quickly shoved the magazine. “Just don’t lose any fingers when you activate that thing.”

Sigmund was about to ask how he was meant to activate it, or even what exactly it was, but before he could the man simply slapped him on the shoulder and went back inside, the door shutting behind him. Pursing his lips in vague concern, the priest turned and left, wondering if the canister would make much of a difference in the coming conflict.

After the safe zone ejection

“Ok, so… if I were to just…” The psion murmured to himself, fiddling with the weapon that the soldier had given to him. He had intended to try to figure it out with Father Gascoigne, but after Mr. Jak’s latest indulgence in his uncontrolled teleportation fetish, he found himself racing to find out how it worked, praying that it wasn’t some sort of explosive that he was about to detonate on himself. “And… aha!”

Finding the right button, the energy bayonet flared to life, barely missing the cultist’s hand in the process.

“Oh… don’t lose any fingers indeed.” He murmured to himself, shifting his grip to a more appropriate position. After a few moments of admiring the weapon, a lightbulb went off in Sigmund’s brain. This was it! He had found what was missing before! Taking out the energy sword that Gascoigne had gifted him, the second plasma weapon activated, and the priest found himself dual wielding energy blades.

“Hahaha! Ancestors, Father! Witness me!” He cackled, swinging the blades in patterns partially retained from Erik Vrell’s memories of wielding his twin psi blades. Illuminated by the crackling energy, Sigmund’s face was cast in a sinister shadow by his cowl, his wide grin all too visible. After a few moments of reveling in the serendipity of it all, he deactivated the weapons and cleared his throat, forcing himself to settle down. There would, hopefully, be celebration in the future. For now he had to make sure he wasn’t going to be jumped by anyone while he began his search for Gascoigne. The larger man was a reliable, steadfast presence, and Sigmund felt quite vulnerable without him.

So, he started walking. And walking. And walking.

Even with the unmaking closing in on all sides, the Abyss contestants still had enough distance they could roam around than the priest knew what to do with. Assuming that the hunter was moving at a similar pace to himself, they could easily be running around in circles looking for one another, assuming that Gascoigne even was looking for him. Sigmund didn’t know what kind of life the older priest lived, but he had undoubtedly been touched by the madness. For all he knew, his lost companion could be out hacking heads from their necks at the moment.

The scion continued his trek through the wastes of Cevanti, humming quietly to himself to distract himself from the impending return of soul-crushing boredom, when he caught movement in the trees out of the corner of his eye. Freezing stock still and glancing towards its source, there was silence for a long, tense moment before curiosity for the better of the young man and he started to creep towards the source of the sound. When he pushed through a few branches, however, he wished he hadn’t.

A burly man who wouldn’t have looked out of place back at home in Ranvier was standing there, his back against the tree for both support and protection. He looked bad, having clearly been through hell in his time on Cevanti, and as Sigmund glanced down, he realized that the weapon currently being leveled at his chest also looked bad, but in a very different way. Cursing under his breath, the cultist subtly pocketed his energy weapons, praising all the Old Aesir that his cloak concealed his arms, before slowly raising his hands until they were all the way above his head.

“Um… hello there!” He croaked, unsure of what exactly he should be doing right now. “I come in peace! My name is Sigmund, I enjoy reading books on snowy nights and not being blasted into giblets!”

The grizzled stranger let out a harsh grunt that could conceivably be construed as a laugh and squinted his good eye, quietly analyzing the psion for what felt like an eternity. Finally, though, he let out a quiet sigh and lowered his weapon, apparently deciding that starting a fight he didn’t need to take wouldn’t be worth it, and Sigmund breathed his own sigh of relief. He felt as if his soul had been about to evacuate his body and had quickly sucked back in when safety was assured.

“Kolith.” The man replied, still giving the priest a skeptical look despite his lowered weapon. “My name is Kolith.”

The Northman’s smile fell by an imperceptible degree at the stranger’s response. Neither his name nor his accent were Ranvian. How disappointing, he thought he might have met one of his countrymen, as absurd as those odds would have been.

“A pleasure to meet you, Kolith.” Sigmund said, giving the spirit vessel a broad grin. The two stared at each other for a few seconds, which extended into a few minutes, the cultist looking expectantly at the grizzled man while he gave a strange look back.

“You can put your arms down now.”

“Oh, thank you!”

 

[Rebecca Chambers]

“So, you’ve already interrogated me about why I came here,” said Fennec, leaning with her hip propped against the altar. “But why are you here? Lying in wait for some traveler unlucky enough to venture into your den, eh?”

Gascoigne chuckled, the roughened burrs of his accent rendering the sound into a scratchy, uneven staccato. “Not anything so sinister, I assure you. I’d noticed… ah… a familiar scent, I suppose, lingering in the air about this place. I’ve lost my dear moon-scented hunter, you see, and had hoped to find him here. My hope was misplaced, it seems…”

Fennec snorted, the sunlight trickling into the room emboldening her somewhat against the beastly man’s foreboding presence. She dragged one hand through her intricately-braided hair, rustling some bits of grit and salty sweat out from her dark locks.

“Moon-scented,” the woman repeated, a veneer of skepticism coloring her voice. She tilted her head to the side, dark eyes intent upon his face. “I seem to recall that you said that before when referring to your little friend. What does it mean, exactly?”

The hunter appeared to consider her question for a long moment, hands straying again to the objects scattered upon the altar. His fingertips brushed over the dry, severed digits, a wry smirk twisting upon his mouth as he gave a regretful shake of his head.

“I could not tell you. All I know is that the stench permeates these walls, just as it did the previous realm I was trapped in… perhaps you have heard of it. Inverxe, I believe it was called?”

Head snapping up, Fennec’s eyes sparked with interest, though she kept herself from allowing the many burning questions on her tongue to spill over. Couldn’t go giving away all her secrets, now. Instead, she kept her voice perfectly cool as she spoke. “Inverxe. Yes, I’ve heard of it. The ice moon. What were you doing there?”

“Slaying beasts. Expunging corruption. What else?” the beastly man huffed. He gave up on investigating the remnants of Sigmund’s unfortunate left foot, likewise turning his attention to the skylight above. While it was obvious he couldn’t see it, he seemed to enjoy what little warmth it offered to the cold, dark room, the faintest ghost of a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

Fennec watched him carefully, her hooded gaze straying to the axe loosely clutched at his side, the fearsome weapon hanging from his grip like it weighed absolutely nothing. The man seemed at ease for now, perhaps not considering her much of a threat. His mistake, if so. Still, several questions burned in her mind as she watched the serene Father Gascoigne, so much so that she could not resist asking them.

“Even without your sight, you seem to follow your nose well enough…” Fennec remarked, crossing her arms over her chest. His head turned to her at the comment, canting to the side like an attentive hound. “I’d thought it was mere luck that you decided not to attack me. Did you recognize my scent, as well, then?”

There was a short pause. The Father’s face twisted, almost as if he was tasting something particularly sour.

“Hah,” said Gascoigne, voice bordering on… hesitant. “I am not so certain that you want the answer to that question, good hunter.”

Wrinkling her nose in distaste, the bounty hunter scowled at him. “What, do I smell bad to you?”

With a slowness that belied his amusement, the hunter’s face stretched into an unsettlingly wide grin. The jagged points of his teeth glinted in the low light, wet with saliva— far too many of them for a mere human, Fennec thought.

“No,” he sighed, voice hitching slightly on the word.

It took a moment for the implications of this admission to sink in for Fennec. When it did, every hair on her body stood straight on end, a terrible chill shooting down her spine. Rubbing at her arms to ward off the gooseflesh prickling over her skin, the woman glanced away, one hand reaching down to grasp tightly at the hilt of her machete.

“Okay, so maybe I really don’t want to know,” she snapped brusquely, slanting a distrustful glare his way. She shifted back a step, maybe two, her boots clicking loudly against the grimy stone floor. “We should part ways here, I think.”

“Just a moment,” rasped Gascoigne, shifting to lift his axe from where he had braced it against the floor.

For a wild, heart-stopping second, Fennec thought he might be about to take a swing at her. Her body tensed in preparation to run, or duck, or something, but by then he had settled the gigantic thing down on the altar between them. The crimson-tinged energy within the blade cast an eerie glow over the strange markings etched into the stone, pulsing intermittently.

The man regarded her steadily, seeming at least mildly regretful about her skittishness. “Take this with you. It has served me well. Maybe it will also favor you.”

Fennec gazed upon the axe hungrily, eyes alight with intrigue and suspicion in equal measure. This was a far better weapon than what she had come across thus far, for sure, but…

Her hawk-eyed gaze snapped up to his face, lips pursing. “What do you want in return? Nothing comes free. Not here, and not anywhere else besides.”

Gascoigne hummed under his breath, bracing his palms against the cool, smooth stone of the altar. His head turned downward, mangy silver strands of gore-streaked hair falling into his face. “I would ask that you keep an eye out for my moon-scented hunter. And if you can, stay by his side. Time is… running out for me, I’m afraid.”

“I wouldn’t have thought much would scare a man like you,” Fennec remarked, half-joking. She shifted forward to take the axe when it finally seemed that Gascoigne truly was not about to attack her. It settled heavily into her hands as she hefted it, nearly as long as she was tall, but she managed to wield it well.

“A man like me,” echoed Gascoigne, voice dropping into a dull, grating rasp. He shook his head with what appeared to be profound regret, reaching out to seize the virulent purple syringe she had abandoned on the altar. As she watched, the hunter turned it over between his fingers, every little movement seeming achingly slow and methodical... ponderous, almost, were it not for the possessive tightening of his grasp.

“Madam, you are mistaken,” he said at last, not turning his attention away from the syringe. “For not much longer will I be a man at all…”

Fennec stared at the gleaming vial now in Gascoigne’s possession, the glass cylinder flipping one end over the other as he toyed with it. She felt cold all of a sudden, and not even the faint rays of daylight streaming into the room could cure her of it.

Her clothes rustled as she quickly bent to retrieve her pack, eyes fixed on him at all times, watching for any sudden movements. Yet he only stood there, still as stone, attention focused solely on the vial caught between his fingertips.

A beat later, the bounty hunter got to her feet, gripping the axe tightly in her hands. Her pack was slung across her shoulders once more, lighter now that its bounty had been deposited. “I’ll see you around, then.”

Finally, Gascoigne looked at her. The gory mess of his countenance appeared especially solemn, the vacant, fleshy remnants of his eye sockets seeming to cut straight down to her very marrow.

“Pray that you don’t.”

 

[Karl Jak]

Face to Face
#19 Caboose vs #20 Nico Cinder vs #28 Ketkin Flynn vs #25 Kefka​

Unbeknownst to Nico Cinder, his decision to not scamper the fuck out of the area after his run-in with Caboose was not a wise one.

“RIP AND TEAR!”

Caboose thundered out from the woods as his threat quickly descended into a guttural scream.

Nico hoisted the launcher but found his focus pulled when a lightsaber crackled to life a few yards away.

“That’s a nice gun you got there,” Ketkin Flynn muttered as the would-be ‘Flynn Taggart’ continued his charge.

“You should see what happens when I pull the trigger,” Nico spoke with a smile as he swung and fired.

The aquanaut evaded the rocket, but Nico quickly found himself twisting to block the mighty blade as it swung down toward his skull.

“You good?” Nico muttered as she stared through the broken visor at the crazy-eyed man within it. “You go full-DA, bud? Don’t you know that you’re never supposed to go full-DA?”

A different scream broke out as Nico heard yet another person invade his midday rest site. Burnt flesh and charred clothes were the least point of unease as the clown-themed man shambled out and hoisted an oversized revolver.

“Live target practice?” Kefka guffawed as he cocked back the hammer of the magical-infused gun. “Perhaps you’re nearing forty percent, Karl,” he added before firing the trigger and leashing a bullet that sailed wide of Nico’s head and exploded into a tree a few yards from Ketkin Flynn, who had leaned hard to get a look at the newest arrival at the small forest clearing’s freakshow.

“Emo kid!” Ketkin shouted as Nico parried the sword with his rocket launcher once more and turned his focus. “You know that other guy with the gun?” He added as he dove beneath an oncoming projectile.

“Why the fuck do you think I know skinny Gacy?”

Ketkin smirked before spitting some blood from his mouth. “Dunno … just seems like your type.”

“I prefer my psychopaths to be a little grittier!” Nico shouted as he ducked a sword strike and swung the rocket launcher into Caboose’s knee. “That guy seems to be a little too much flashy substance.”

“OH-HO-HO?” Kefka barked as he shifted his aim and fired.

Nico could have maneuvered away had Caboose not grabbed him by the ankle at the last second. The bullet crashed into the young man’s right shoulder with a burst of flames.

As the kid with the rocket launcher freed himself from the armored guy and stumbled off to try and extinguish himself, Ketkin popped up to his legs as best he could and stalked toward the clown, who hard marched over to an ailing Caboose.

“Do you know where the bald man is?” Kefka politely shouted into Caboose’s face.

“RIP AND TEAR!”

Bang!

“WRONG ANSWER!” Kefka screamed as he looked down through the haze of the revolver’s barrel and into the crimson mass that had been Caboose’s face a few moments prior. “Tell me the TRUTH!”

“Corpses usually don’t talk,” Ketkin muttered.

Kefka scowled as he shifted his focus back to the man. “You don’t know Karl like I do, you fool!”

“You want to talk about?” Ketkin added as he continued to ease his way closer to Kefka, who had kicked Caboose in the side, causing the still-burning corpse to loll onto his side.

“Yes,” Kefka sneered as he spun and thrust the barrel of the revolver into the forehead of the aquanaut. “But I want to speak with your manager,” he added as his finger went for the trigger.

Ketkin, wounds and all, smacked the gun just enough that it didn’t fire until it was a few inches from the side of his head. The rapport of the magic revolver blew out his good ear drum and singed that side of his face, but it was all the time the acquanaut needed to thumb the igniter of the lightsaber and jam it into Kefka.

Now, unfortunately, Ketkin’s stab went low of its intended mark, but it had the intended effect of distracting a wide-eyed Kefka long enough for the man to withdraw from the gunslinging madman.

Spoiler

#19 Caboose DEAD​

Caboose used 1 application of Focus
Nico Cinder was pressured into 1 application of Focus

Kefka receives Einlanzer

Nico has a broken and burnt right shoulder (Major Injury)
Kefka has a cauterized stab wound (Minor Injury)
Ketkin has some scrapes (Minor Injury) and is mostly deaf now (Story Injury)

 

[Karl Jak]

Afternoon
Phase 3 - (1200 – 1800)​

“Hello out there, and let us take a moment to ‘pour one out’ for our fallen family members:

“#11 Jester
#13 Toga
#19 Caboose
#27 Pyke.”

Karl double-checked the list. A lot of walking corpses but no more literal corpses.

“Be cautious out there! Challenges still remain on the docket, but we are drawing closer to the finish line. All of the quest items are in-play, and an item drop remains unclaimed at Square Q5. It’s almost like you want Mr. Wilson – the mercenary, not the teddy bear… even if the mercenary is essentially a human teddy bear – to have all the stupid prizes and gimmick items.

“Now… I have a fresh batch of squares that will be lethally hostile to your health, so I want you to mark them on your tablets:

“T5
N5
N6
N7
P2
S2.”

All of the business looking complete, Karl shrugged his shoulders. “And remember one of our Dante’s Abyss mantras, Ladies and Gentle-Living Organisms: ‘Don’t be the Roy Mustang … always make smart choices’! Taa-taa!.”

**​

This phase ends on 6-22 at 9 AM CST

 

[Karl Jak]

Face to Face
#17 Nearl​

The radiant knight frowned as she tapped the screen of the infernal device. After being ejected from the bunker while trying to sleep, she had been struggling to find her bearing in this strange world.

Karl had read off another list of squares, but even as he spoke, Nearl had been spent the majority of the time trying to decipher the current layout. After all, she had spent much of the event on the other part of this landmass, and when she had spent time with the young Josuke, he had done much of the coordination of their movements. If he was here, she was certain she wouldn’t be having this issue.

“Curses,” Nearl groaned as the edges of the tablet’s bezel started to flicker red. “What does that mean?” She asked out loud as she felt the ground shift beneath her. Glancing down to her feet, she noticed that the grass had been replaced by some type of soupy pitch that clung to her footwear. With her gaze off of her tablet, she looked around and realized that much of the landscape had… destabilized? Chunks of black, gooey earth were floating, and the air itself seemed to have grown into a miasma that oozed sinister intentions.

“Oh no,” Nearl muttered as the ground suddenly shifted once more, but this time, she found herself being dragged down. “Josuke!” She managed just before the darkness consumed her.

Spoiler

Nearl has been unmade.

 

[Karl Jak]

Face to Father
Father Gascoigne​

The priest held the syringe up to his nose and drew a deep sniff into his malformed nose.

Nothing.

With a swift motion, Father Gascoigne drove the needle into his forearm and pressed down on the plunger. The effect was almost immediate—like a fire that quickly spread throughout his entire body.

Screaming despite his best intentions to the contrary, he stumbled forward and collapsed to his knees as his body literally started to shift and shudder. Bones and muscles snapped and reformed as the virus burned away the infirmities of its host.

Throwing his head back, Gascoigne’s screams dropped a number of octaves and seemed to echo across the landscape.

Spoiler

Father Gascoigne has used ‘G-Virus’

He resembles in appearance and scale his character's beast form, albeit with an eyeball on the shoulder because it's the G-Virus after all

 

[Karl Jak]

Face to Face
#04 G-Mutant Gascoigne vs #18 Demetri, #07 Anders Nazrat, #12 Lilith & #14 Caustic​

They had missed one of the item drops, but the group’s general demeanor had not worsened because of it. After all, they had retrieved two of Karl’s questing trinkets, and their earlier scuffle had essentially eliminated the petulant goblin child and his babysitters from the playing board. What worries did any of them need to have?

Unfortunately, Dante’s Abyss is best described as a game of strategy, rather than tactics. If you’re Wade Wilson, Professional Mercenary and Salt Machine, you might call it a ‘long con.’ Play long enough… find the right vile southern, and you’re on the easy path. A day removed from beating down their foes and then being able to sneer at them from the safety of the bunker had put the group, particularly its core of Doctor Caustic and Lilith, in the closest thing to high spirits that the two individuals could experience when science or biological functions weren’t involved.

With the sun hanging in its midday position overhead, the foursome had started to travel once again. As the map was steadily diminishing, it was becoming increasingly important for the larger group to pay close attention to the paths they traversed.

Their group was being led by Anders, whose weapon stood at the ready. At the rear of the group, Demetri was flipping through his cards. He drew a card and was immediately paused by the results.

“That’s not good,” he whispered as he heard a skittering sound on the ground. His eyes caught a little pebble as it danced its way passed him and toward the remainder of his group. “That’s strange,” he muttered as he suddenly got a whiff of something that smelled worse than Caustic.

Turning around, the thief found himself staring into the midsection of a nine-foot monstrosity. Thick, viscous droll spattered down onto Demetri’s head as he looked up into the bandaged eyes of the creature.

“Pick a card?” He whispered softly before a set of clawed fingers slammed into the side of his skull and sent him smashing through a nearby tree.

The scream of their companion and the subsequent crumbling of a few trees was more than enough to draw the rest of the group’s focus to the hulk man-beast that had stalked them through the overgrown jungle.

“What is that,” Caustic muttered with more awe than unease.

“Playmate,” Lilith cooed as she smiled at the hulking mutant. As the woman started toward the father, her body started to liquefy.

Flesh still quivering and undulating as the pathogen ravaged through him, Gascoigne paused as his shoulder flesh peeled apart to reveal a bulbous eyeball twitching among the monster’s sinew. Along the priest’s arms, barbs of spiked bone ripped through flesh as his jagged fingernails tore wetly away as they were replaced by yellowed barbs.

“Sooner … or later,” the barely human monster rasped through its slobbery maw. “You all become a beast!”

The ‘man’ lunged, his enormous form vaulting over Lilith, who surged up from her puddled form the try and lash out as bullets and gouts of flame sprang up to meet the priest-monster. Parts of Gascoigne’s chest and upper body erupted outward as Caustic struck a number of regions of the body that should have been lethal.

Should have.

The trees shook as Gascoigne landed with a thunderous boom and scooped up Doctor Caustic as a father would snatch an errant toddler. Massive hands crushed around the scientist’s chest and neck. Throwing the Desert Eagle over the mutant’s broad shoulders, the Less-Than-Good Doctor sneered into the vacuous sockets that had once been Gascoigne’s eyes.

“I look forward to dissecting you,” Caustic rasped as the crushing weight on his chest started to force blood up through his mouth.

Before those giant, malformed teeth could close around Alexander Nox’s face, a stream of flames washed over Gascoigne’s upper body. Fresh bullet holes erupted through the diseased flesh of the colossus as it ragdolled the utterly non-doll-like Caustic three feet into the ground and turned its focus to the nearest prey.

Anders took a few steps back to steady himself as he hoisted the Mustank Gun and pulled back on the trigger. Flames roared forth from the hefty weapon, and there was a brief moment as the monster screamed and writhed when the herald of the True Heir felt almost like laughing.

And then Gascoigne, flames wreathing its now-blackened flesh, lurched through the gushing stream of flames and grabbed hold of the weapon’s fuel tank. There was a screech of steel as the tube housings snapped away. Anders, eyes wide in horror, managed to throw the weapon forward just as the flames caught hold of the sputtering petroleum.

There was a literal thunderclap as the nearby trees snapped like twigs at the force of the subsequent explosion.

Caustic, who had barely managed to free himself from the crater he had been driven into, leapt as the concussive wave of force washed over him, following shortly thereafter by a cloud of thick smog and an atmosphere that was now rife with flittering cinders and ash.

Even so, the doctor managed to his feet and tried to see through the haze.

“I think it’s dead,” Lilith whispered as the half-formed woman rose up through the ground next to her companion.

“That thing?” Caustic growled as he drew the Death Maul. “I doubt it. We need to put it down.”

“Oooh,” Lilith cooed. “So fierce.”

“Can the bullshit,” Caustic growled as he strode through the haze and toward the hulking mass of charred flesh. He got to within five yards when Gascoigne let out a gurgling shriek and pushed himself—itself—up off the ground. Those empty sockets twisted toward the scowling doctor as he lifted the hammer and rushed forward.

The blow smashed into Gascoigne’s skull and met little resistance as it shattered and shredded apart muscle and flesh alike.

Yet, the mutant continued to rise up from the ground as if it had met little resistance, even as its shattered skull lolled lifelessly to one shoulder.

With Caustic seemingly momentarily stunned, Lilith strode forward and unloaded the clip of the heavy handgun into Father Gascoigne’s chest. Her eyes wide as chunks of flesh and blood spattered and sprayed through the afternoon sky, the woman reloaded midstride and found herself walking passed Caustic as one of the priest’s knees blew out the back of his leg with wet pop.

Yet, this was nothing like what Caustic—or Lilith, for that matter—had ever seen.

Father Gascoigne shrugged away the shattered lower leg, which smacked into the ground like the wet hunk of meat it was. The priest’s stump shuddered as a new limb erupted through the sicky, blackened flesh.

Screaming defiantly, Gascoigne stepped forward and shattered Lilith into a million acidic globules with a swipe of his ever-growing clawed fingers.

Doctor Caustic wasn’t an idiot. He knew that he had to reassess this situation. Too many variables.

He found the mask in his bag as he stumbled backwards from the slobbering, ever-convulsing mutant. When Caustic heard the footfalls of the deer, he turned and made a run for salvation.

The G-Mutant tilted its head back and let out a scream.

One that, strangely enough, carried hints of what sounded like laughter as it reached Caustic’s ears.

Spoiler

G-Mutant Gascoigne absorbs damage (equivalent of Major Injury)
Demetri was impaled through the chest on a tree. The dude has ribs on the outside of his body and has lost the use of one lung. (An Insane Injury)
Caustic has broken ribs … probably all of them (Major Injury)
Lilith suffers the equivalent of a Major Injury from deep lacerations (four of them, diagonally down her chest)
Anders has borderline lethal burns across nearly his entire body, but he somehow managed to not die (Insane)

Caustic used 1 application of Focus for Relic (Deathmaul)
Caustic used Deathseeker Trinket (4/6)
Lilith used 1 application of Focus
Anders was pressured to use one application of Focus
Father Gascoigne used 1 application of Focus

Father Gascoigne uses Consumable ‘Pebble’

The Mustank Gun has exploded.

The four of you are scattered (on the same square unless you want to move, of course) following this F2F -- you're more than welcome to regroup but just keep that in mind when your write.

(Gascoigne received the 1v3 buff for this scene)

 

[Aster]

Hell.

This was actually hell.

That was the only explanation for running into MOTHERFUCKING JASON VOORHEES.

Aster had seen more than enough showings of Dante’s Abyss to know just what Jason was all about. A nigh-indestructible, pretty much unstoppable and un-slow-down-able freak of nature that was all about the killing people. He was kind of awesome to watch from the comfort of home through the separation of a TV screen…but here? Up close and personal, where you could feel the bad vibes he gave off? Yeah, no thanks. Definitely no thanks.

Aster stumbled in the midst of the chaos, dropping down to her good knee and panting heavily. Watching the others try and deal with this monstrosity, she seriously debated just turning tail and making a run for it. Dealing with the other competitors in this place was one thing. But dealing with this guy? Definitely waaaaay out of her pay grade.

After only a moment, though, she ground her teeth together and forced herself back up to her feet.

Fuck that. Fuck running away and being a coward again. Ignore the way her legs were shaking, and threatening to give out on her from panic. Fuck the way her injuries were flaring up with agony and providing a good excuse to just limp off and hide somewhere. Fuck the fact that her arms were just so fucking tired from swinging around this damn fish fork.

Fuck it. Fuck it all.

Aster was a coward, she knew that much. But even a coward has their time when they can’t run away anymore. And right now, she knew, was that time. Cause trying to run away from Jason? Not gonna happen. Once he got you in his sights, you were pretty much done for, unless you could put him down first.

If she’d been on her own, this would be no contest. But with the others here…

Taking a deep breath and preemptively biting down on the pain she knew was about to come, she bolted forward. A mad dash through the fog, and cutting right through and around the others in this mad scuffle against an undead killing machine. At the last second, she leaped up and out of the fog, and came crashing down on Jason trident-first, only landing a glancing blow — one that ripped through his coat and side, but failed to really land home — and then hit the ground hard, rolling toward her good side and landing in a crouch on her hands and knees before scrabbling and wildly scrambling away.

Her heart was pounding, as much from the war between adrenaline and physical agony as from fear at this point. She could hear it, thudding and booming in her head, and she could feel it, throbbing and pulsing in her chest and in every last scrape and bruise and burn.

She only had a moment to appreciate the fact she could feel that key reminder she was still alive before something else overtook her senses. A deep, bone-chilling dread as she practically felt the shadow that suddenly loomed over her. She whirled around in a panic, just in time to see the hockey masked face of Jason as his empty hand closed around one of her legs and hoisted her up off the ground, with a strangled yelp.

On a good day, Aster would have been almost the same height as Jason. That was the good part. The bad part? He was at least twice her overall size, and several times stronger than she was. He hefted her up off the ground with virtually zero effort, arm raised over his head so she dangled helplessly off the ground.

And even worse? The motherfucker had grabbed hold of her bad leg, making red-hot agony shoot up and down the tormented limb and radiate out into the rest of her body. She clenched her teeth down on the howl of anguish, fighting to keep her vision clear of angry red and white spots as she struggled and flailed in the undead killer’s grasp.

She squirmed and fought, reaching up with her empty hand and swatting at her assailant’s grasp. Clawing and pawing and punching and smacking, trying to wrench his cold vice of a hand open to get free. She desperately started swinging and stabbing with her trident, at anything within reach, her eyes going wide and her breathing coming in more and more ragged gasps as she saw his other arm slowly rise up.

That rusted, pitted and nicked machete gleamed in the foggy light as it rose into view, and even without her heightened senses Aster could smell the blood coating it.

“No, no, no, no, no, no! Not like this!” she wailed, redoubling her efforts as she tried to do something, anything, to free herself.

Her opportunity came when the high-pitched whine of energy sounded and a shot from the Proto Buster crashed into Jason’s back. The impact was just enough to make him stagger, and his blade arm to drop.

Aster seized her brief chance, squirming and writhing around and stabbing up with the trident into the arm holding her. Once, twice, thri—

She shrieked aloud.

Her blind panic had saw her stab through her own leg, and into Jason’s arm. She tensed up, her entire body briefly flaring up with pain, as she wrenched the trident to and fro in an attempt to rip it free…and then she was falling.

She hit the ground with a heavy thud, and before she could even right her senses a heavy boot came crashing down into her chest.

Gasping, she brought her hands up to try and force the weight off of herself…but it was gone.

Chh chh chh…
Ahh ahh ahh…

She valiantly (or not so valiantly) scrambled up and tried to get back to her feet, but only managed a feeble stumble before dropping back to her hands and knees, looking around frantically for some sight of the hulking killer.

“Where…where did you fucking go now…?”

 

[Gildarts]

The decay of wood surrounding all that remained was wrought with the unsettling skeletal creep of death. A scatter of rotten cabins, sole islands amid the gentle caress of obscuring fog. Each fighter an island too, scattered by the mist’s vacant clouded mirror.

A scrutinized glance cast over her shoulder. Anger flared in her withered face. Somehow, Christine had found herself with the enemy and the true enemy.

All while time, weakness, and death haunted her every breath. Oh, and there was Aster emerging from the haze, who had already fucked Christine up plenty.

Truce? Ha. I won’t be around much longer to see that happen or crumble. Out here it is every man for ‘imself. She thought bitterly. The trident’s potent sting was the reason her lifeforce was reduced to a few measly haggard breaths.

I didn’t want a truce. Not long ago, even if they 'ad begged me for it I’d rather spit on their graves or roll over in my own. Yet, here I stand beside them. But… In the end, this was the end so, what can you do?

The French woman was devoid of concern for her failing body, yet her consciousness drove it on autopilot. A step here, a weaving maneuver there, the hushed linger of death in every subtle movement she made.

C’est la vie.

Silence was sliced by the measured strikes that Christine couldn’t see past the haze, yet she could hear them past the pounding bloodrush roaring in her ears. Her senses elevated, her body itself remained drained as though by death itself. A not so gentle reminder, it was waiting for her now.

In her wobbly wake she’d left a sopping trail. One she hadn’t bothered to cast her eyes upon. Trevor remained on Christine’s flank, he eyed the woman protectively. She could barely stand let alone protect herself from whatever monster was out there.

Ch ch ch…

The laughter rattled against the tense thrill in the air as a few islands collided.

Discombobulated motion blended as a giant hand parted the fog, Aster’s throat clutched in that hand.

Trevor’s shocked eyes locked on and fired the pulse of the blaster hitting the hefty figure straight in the chest. The masked man’s density allowed him to withstand the peppering spray as more shots rang off absorbed by the dewey gray cotton candy shading their vision.

The monster relinquished his grip on the she-wolf, leaving her to stand and catch her bearings as well as her breath.

Rogue and Chara were nowhere in sight. Behind Christine, Trevor’s steaming breath brushed the skin of her neck. The three fighters formed one as they all looked up at the goliath that loomed above them. His heft temporarily paused as he shook off his last blow.

Christine felt her haunches rip with another breath as she cast a cynical look at the weakened wolf.

In this moment, a glimpse of revenge.

The specter could taste the reminder of blood on her lips, its warm perpetual film on her tongue. The reason of her state stood right beside her, in the immediate clutches of this immaculate bloodthirsty beast.

The slightest grin formed on her lips.

Christine’s ears twitched with the decision. While she rallied enough force in a kick that was driven into Aster’s ankle causing the wolf woman to collapse to the ground. At the feet of the immense mass-murderer's power.

A yelp of pain leapt from the wolf’s throat. The pain to her ankle was nothing compared to the shock of violent betrayal ripping through her fallen body.

Yet, Aster’s eyes lifted to watch as the masked fellow’s form did not follow through with a killing blow. Instead, her eyes followed the graceful flow of a huge machete hacking the air a few feet above her. Right where her head had been.

The empty swish of air, across her fur she could still feel the breeze of the machete’s miss.

Christine had saved her.

When one found themself in a position such as Christine currently found herself in, you just knew it was one of these moments where somebody had to make a sacrifice. She didn’t need to look down at the scrap of mangled flesh beneath her to know that no one was better suited for death than she.

A foggy delay in hearing Rogue’s plea to Chara, Christine responded. “I ‘ave a plan.” She responded back finally, seeing the whirling golden glow like a fog light in the distance. Closing in on their position, “Buying you une minute of time.”

The French woman cast a glance to Trevor regarding the grounded wolf.“Do me a favor, that one’s your responsibility now.”

She uttered, armed with conviction, “Salut.” Bye.

Before Trevor could protest Christine vanished from sight. And with her, so went the monster.

“C’mon, mon ami. Look at this, I’m an easy kill, don’t you know?” Christine egged the man on, “I know you’ve been following my trail of bloodcrumbs…” The specter hadn’t gotten far, but was out of breath and barely had any energy to go any faster.

“I know that you feel the same thrill of the hunt I do.” Christine surmised through another gargled gush. Only a few words left. The assurance… The finality… The embrace of death called to her as she weakly grabbed at the railing by the stairs.

She envisioned what would come next as her eyes crawled up the cabin’s decrepit stairs. A few creaky steps and the follow of Jason’s heavy feet echoed behind her.

There was always a choice between life and death. In this case, it was the choice of the life of others. Pour une fois. For once. She was the decoy. She had chosen this. The reassurance that Slurt and Jester were okay had made it all so simple. Christine was already in death’s clutches.

A grip that tightened with every trickle of red that plopped on the brittle wooden floor.

Her own choice was up, considering the everlasting leak out of her side. The gnarled beat ribs rubbing against her flesh with every press of movement would soon fall away. This whisper of assurance no more pain gifted her with one last push.

The rugged haul her body had to take on just to suck in some air let alone to move. It chugged loudly, as well as the whistling wheeze of her exhale. Every breath was perilous for one misstep, one trip meant failure in the sacrifice's equation of time. Her vision whirled around her and she gulped to stabilize it. Every movement, her very balance, instinctively following the cadence of her rushing heart. Carrying her forward. To the finale of the chase.

Je suis fini.

Her eyes sketched the dead end of the log cabin's room as the door she'd slammed behind her burst into wood chips scattering across the air.

An old wooden chair lay peacefully empty by an open window.

The defeated woman spotted her refuge. Then turned to meet the masked visage of death. Her eyes met his devoid of any emotion, both equally as black. While the last movement blurred beneath her line of sight.

THWACK!

The machete struck. The wet sound of a heavy bowling ball clattered to the ground into its own sopping pool.

The skeletal wooden chair by the window lay adorned with a decapitated corpse.

Above the empty neck’s grisly ooze, the cleaver stuck in the chipped wall, dripping with the final splatter of Christine.


#06 Christine DEAD
Death by Decapitation

 

[Chara Dreemurr]

It had taken a set of shortcuts just to catch up to them, monsters that could ignore time and space, just like me. She had been quick to make up her mind, and I had been pre-occupied with keeping the rest of the group on their feet - I had not noticed when Christine had disappeared for several seconds.

Skipping in and out of the void was taxing, especially when forced to do it for so many short trips, but Jason and Christine had kept the focus of the cameras on this trip, which meant I could finally use these shortcuts without a few hundred thousand viewers blocking my abilities.

Fitting, that I was still too late.

I am Chara Dreemurr, and as I stare at the head of my newest friend, rolling from it’s seat to greet me, as the butcher turns to see his newest victim, I have been unmasked.

Rage fills me, and the logical part, the one that keeps control of my movements, of my body, assures me it is meaningless rage. I knew Christine would die here, and I understood her sacrifice. It was not unexpected. It did not make it hurt less. It did not make it sting less.

but it fuelled hundreds of knives, all distinct expressions of the different things I wanted Jason to feel by my hand in this moment.

Logic kept the front seat however, and made the quick assurance that this freak could only pull off his strange movements the same way I did - a lack of visual observation, though maybe only by his victims. In other words, he was my target dummy right now! He took my next barrage of blades just like he had before, Either lacking reason or interest in taking what he clearly viewed as meaningless damage, even when I lowered my nailgun to augment the blades with a hail of spikes


It was satisfying, when I got something close to a reaction from that son of a bitch when one of the blades flashed a golden yellow and exploded, the Explosive blast staggering him long enough for the rest of the broken cabin to fall on top of the bastard.

I am sorry, Christine. It’s the only burial I am able to give you.

The thought only held for a moment as I heard the thud of a boot behind me.

Chh chh chh… Ahh ahh ahh…

A dodge to the left let me get away with a slice across my shoulder, but Jason was a whole lot bigger than me, and I couldn’t get away quickly. Damnit! I had gone off on my own, right into this creature’s hunting pattern. As I turned, I could see a bit of damage, even a piece of splintered wood impaled into him here and there… had it been worth it? Had I allowed my allies a chance, at least? I could not die without at least doing that…

Jason pulled back his machete for another blow as I tried to scramble off the ground, but he stopped halfway as something dark twisted around him, shadowy tendrils grabbing hold against the giant’s straining muscle. I heard the whine of the Proto Buster charging, before a massive Azure shot tore through the mist and burned it’s way into Jason’s back.

“Where’s Christine?!” Shinku snapped, clearly a little out of breath. I had forgotten how fast he was.

Failing to find a good answer, I just shook my head, and Trevor’s face tightened as I heard the proto buster charge and fire again, and again. I was already on my feet - Trevor’s anger was useful in this moment, but I knew his strength could not hold forever, and as I approached what looked like the camp lodge, I knew he would be moving again. “Trevor! Get rogue and the others! Bring ‘em here!”

“What about you?”

“I’m putting his teenager-killing credentials to the test.” I teased back.

It was a lie, but not one that would stop them from doing their job, of course.

Running into the lodge, I could already guess he would be in there before I made it too far, so when I had to dodge a machete that broke through the railing halfway up the stairs, there was satisfaction in finding his points of predictability. An ambush hunter that would corner his victims and crush them, cutting off every escape sequentially, slowly.

But here, there were no cameras, and as I peppered him with another barrage of taunting nails, he was quick to follow me upstairs. It meant he couldn’t be seen - but I couldn’t be either.

I certainly didn’t need to pretend to be out of breath, but I could tell from the tightening of his muscles that it only made him more ready to see the end, as I flew into what I assume was the camp Chief’s bedroom? No cover, no windows. Just a bed, a closet, and an end-stand.

How much pain does a machete inflict? The thought came to me with a wave of nausea as I ran in, hearing his footsteps behind me, and I flung myself into the closet.

Now comes the dangeorus part. Jason didn’t just see, I had figured out. He could find where he needed to go to catch people without seeing a thing . He had something else, and if I jumped out early, he would know. As I closed the doors, and heard him tumbling behind me, I had to time this just right, working blind, or I was about to die quite pathetically.

A big step - a familiar thud that came when he was about to swing, just like he had outside, or on the stairs.
Jason hacked the closet apart with a triplet of strikes through the particle board, leaving the inside broken apart, and as I stood behind him, I felt a sadistic satisfaction as he looked up and down at the lack of a butchered teenager.

“Now what did that closet ever do to you?” I teased from behind, as I snapped my finger and leapt out of the room.

A golden sparkle flashed through the room before the Ambition Refuter I’d left in the closet exploded, and I ‘invited’ Jason to visit the ground floor.

 

[Karl Jak]

Face to Face
#20 Nico Cinder vs #22 Fennec Shand​

Nico ventured to the location of the item drop. He wasn’t sure what the fuck ‘the’ briefcase was supposed to be, but he had to imagine it was something useful. Then again, Karl Jak was the type of person to broadcast important supplies and then send down cans of soda.

“Aww, shit,” Nico muttered as he saw the open case from a distance of about ten feet. Did he just miss it? There was still a light haze of purple smoke in the teeny clearing.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed Nico by the hair as a big ass knife was pressed against his throat.

“That’s a nice weapon you have there,” Fennec whispered into his ear. “I’m going to need you to drop that on the ground for me.”

The man tried to crane his neck a little to see who was behind him, but the bounty hunter wrenched back on his hair.

“No hero nonsense,” she spoke. “I’m too old to deal with that, and I won’t hesitate to cut you.”

“Okay, lady,” Nico grumbled as his eyes fell back to the machete against his throat. “Fucking chill, aight?” The blade moved, and he was pushed forward as something cold and metallic poked him in the small of the back. The machete? Nah, this blade felt a bit warm, even through his clothes.

“Three seconds to drop your gun and your bag and run,” Fennec ordered as Nico held out his hands to show he wasn’t packing any secrets. He then let his rocket launcher roll off his shoulder to this left, and he slung his bag to the right. As he did, he let out a faint groan.

“Aww, my fucking leg,” he rasped as he fell sideways onto his open bag.

Fennec rushed forward and kicked him over onto the ground, but when Nico roll onto this back, the youth held a capsule between his twitching fingers.

“I guess it’s a real party now,” he spoke with a smile as he twisted the canister, which let out a pneumatic hiss. The bounty hunter swung the Electro Axe, but even with her quick reflexes, the weapon was intercepted by a shuddering black tendril. Nico kept his smile as the remainder of the Malefactor washed over him. A mouth opened near where Nico’s should have been and revealed an animalistic set of jagged yellow teeth.

“Meat,” the downed entity replied as white eyes opened up and glanced up at Fennec. In an instant, tendrils spurted into the earth and pushed Malefactor-Nico up a vertical position as the bounty hunter paced backwards.

The alien visage peeled away to reveal Nico’s face, albeit one that sported red-tinted eyes and a somewhat unhinged smile. “Ho-ly shit,” he muttered as he lifted up a hand. In an instant, the oily black flesh formed into a comically oversized hammer. “Is this shit for real?” He laughed as he turned to the woman. Her eyes fell to the rocket launcher, but before she could make a move, tendrils erupted from Nico’s chest and snatched the weapon away.

Fennec turned and watched as the sentient suit mounted the rocket launcher onto Nico’s right shoulder.

“How fucking cool is this?” Nico said with a somewhat gurgling laugh. “A bit weird that I’m wondering what your fleshy insides taste like,” he commented as he pursed his lower lip in though for a few minutes. “Yea, let us find out what they taste like.”

The quivering alien flesh washed back over Nico’s face as the Malefactor’s toothy visage quickly reformed. An instant later, the rocket launcher belched, prompting Fennec to dive as the ground erupted beneath her. Rolling out of the leap, she lashed forward with the Electro Axe and buried it down through Nico’s chest until she couldn’t force the crackling weapon any deeper into the malevolent monster.

“Oh, no,” Malefactor-Nico muttered mockingly—the young man’s voice a deep, almost guttural tone as he grabbed the axe and wrenched it from his body. Fennec stumbled backwards, and while there was a moment where she considered pressing her odds, survival instincts ushered her as far from the beast as she could get. As she tried to escape, a rocket missed hitting her abdomen by about four inches, but the blast was more than enough to scald flesh and crack bones when she landed.

“I’ll give you a head start!” Nico-Malefactor cackled as a few more rocket screamed their way through the forest around Fennec.

Spoiler

Fennec Shand was pressured to use 1 application of Focus

Fennec Shand has a broken hip (Major Injury)
Nico absorbs Minor Injury

Nico Cinder used Malefactor

 

[Izaneus Phortea]

Shiki tiredly walked forward her eyes darting to the shadows. Paranoia was the only thing she could truly trust, ironically. As she moved forward through the lands of ill fates She could tell more were dying now. She didn't know if her turn was coming, or when it was coming, if it was at all. She feared the coming of darkness, as well as the whispers in the trees. her eyes drifted slowly across the horizon line, doing her best to avoid the gaze of any passerby's she may come across in the game of horrific deaths.

"Iza, I swear, if you aren't appreciative, of everything i've done... I'm going to kick your ass..." She promised, her eyes darting to the snap of a branch.

Where she found her small, yellow bird, consumed by the unmaking.

What had happened? How? Why? She felt ashamed. That poor bird had done nothing, yet it was subjected to this fate, and Shiki couldn't even care for the poor thing. Yet, strangely, she compared herself to the tiny creature, at first unknowing of the trials ahead. Then wounded, and warned. then slowly facing her death.

She knew she had to press onward, and she would continue to do so. No matter how painful. But she couldn't help but feel as though something was approaching, she didn't know what. But she knew it was going to be dangerous.

and more than painfull

 

[Omelette Robotnik]

As Karl’s voice fell to silence, Slurt was left stunned by what he had heard. Every six hours, the man had spoken to him through the collar around his neck. And, while the contents of each missive had been different, never before had he spoken of ‘fallen family’ before. It was like a sledge driven into the goblin’s gut and he staggered upon hearing a name that was all too familiar to him.

“Number Eleven… Jester.”

One might assume that Slurt wouldn’t have understood the implications of Karl’s words. That he was too young… too innocent… too naive to make that connection. But he knew. God help him, he knew. For he had heard something similar before… before this island of death. Back on the streets of his youth, where death had only ever been a cold, wet, hungry night away. He remembered how cold and stiff Big Harry had been that Christmas morning, with the snow falling upon his blank-eyed face without melting. He’d seen the darkly bruised visage of little Sally (though she had still been a head taller than he), as her breath gurgled bloodily for its last time, the result of being caught by a particularly cruel butcher.

But something about this hurt differently than it had back then. On the streets, he had known that to get close to someone was to invite heartache. Slurt has always kept himself at a ‘safe’ distance from his fellows, knowing that any moment could be their last. And they had done likewise for him. But, back in that Pre-Show dome, Jester had broken through that reserve. With laughter, playfulness, and compassion, she had forced a way into his heart. And now? Now she was gone.

His tiny hands clutched at his chest, sharp nails digging furrows into his green flesh, trying desperately to tear out the knot tightening around his heart. Physical pain faded into the void, and the ominous creaking of his broken forearm fell upon deaf ears. He barely even noticed when he crumpled to the cold concrete floor of the Bunker, eyes held shut as he instinctively curled up into a ball. Hot tears flowed from those eyes, tracing lines in the layer of dirt and filth the boy had accumulated over the past days and… he cried. For the first time, he cried not for himself; for his own pain. But for another. The memories of her smiling face danced upon the backs of his eyelids. Her voice rang in his mind’s ear.

Slurt grieved.

 

[Fennec Shand]

Arm broken. Hip broken. Spirit firmly intact.

Better than ever, she’d hazard to say. Fennec sprinted through the woods as fast as she could with this helluva limp, hands full with the many implements of war she’d managed to snag in the past few hours. Steppenwolf’s Electro Axe drug along the ground behind her; the machete dangled from its sheath; one hand wrapped tightly around the briefcase; her duffel sling lazily over her shoulder. She’d have liked to have scored that rocket launcher as well, but she figured escaping from that ugly malformation with her life might’ve already been asking a little too much.

With everything strapped to her person as securely as she could manage, she hobbled forward, scowling. Three days on this motherfucking island — three days had been all it took to drive one of these teenagers to go swimming in black goop and turn themselves into a screaming, squelching monster. Maybe she’d been wrong to feel any imposter syndrome about her age at all; clearly, these kids weren’t cut out for the long haul.

Like, seriously, a fucking monster?! Fennec couldn’t think of any situation, no matter how dire, that would motivate her to abandon her most basic faculties in favor of surrendering to animal instinct. She was one of the most consistent hunters in the galaxy precisely because of her intuitive mind. Woman’s intuition, some would say — the merc would just say she was smarter than most people.

Mal-Nico’s screeches were finally beginning to fade into the distance, but one thought rushed to the forefront of Fennec’s mind.

It’s time to end this shit.

She slammed the axe into the ground, slowing her pace and leaning over, resting her hands on her knees and stopping to breathe. She’d been pretty content to wander the Wastes for a few days, prove her survival skills, collect a few trinkets. Let the hero types do all the really tough work, gathering whatever was needed to get out of this place and then hitching a ride back to the Comet when all was said and done. Collect the prize money she earned, upgrade her implements, and be on her not-so-merry way to the death moon and face whatever challenge laid before her there.

Things had gone wildly out of hand. Gascoigne swiping the viral syringe; this pathetic excuse for a warrior turning into an actual symbiote nightmare to keep her from acquiring his weapon. Clearly, the rest of the contestants’ grip on their sanity was wearing thin, and Fennec wasn’t having that. She’d always had a rule: morally atheist people were fine. Even those who could be considered repugnant. But when those murderous people started losing their grip on reality and becoming murderous monsters — in this case, literally — well, it was time to shut the whole thing the fuck down.

Which is why she had to find those quest items. They needed to be gathered together, and fast, and at this point, she figured she would have to be the one to do it. She pinged for their location on her ankle collar, then slid the tablet out of her bag and started scanning the grid for the unlucky soul who carried them.

“I’m rich, bitch!”

Fennec glanced down at the briefcase. Had it just… talked.

“Money in the bank! Shawty, what you drank?”

The bounty hunter blinked. Decidedly, she was still too old for this shit.

She knelt down next to the green case, unlocking it and slowly laying it open on the grass below. Inside, a golden button stared up at her, along with what looked like a note of currency with instructions written on it. She scanned it briefly, then let her gaze fall back to the button. She stood up, grabbing the handle of the Electro Axe. “I’m rich, bitch!” it said again.

No, talking briefcase, Fennec thought, but I’m about to be.

She slammed her boot into the button. Time to make it rain… pain.

 

[John Connor]

What’s it like playing 4d chess with an artificial intelligence that doesn’t exist on this plane of existence? Who knows? Connor knew as the 3rd day started to slip by and more and more nightmarish plants grew.

The terminator’s voice distracted him from his thinking.

John knew from survival, that what food he had and the water he had was vital and he made sure to stock up on water earlier while he walked otherwise.

The terminator ripped pieces of metal zoids scattered on the ground. His race, the terminators, were much like these “zoids” at one time. Flesh, blood, sweat, tears. Learning about the world around them, perhaps even gained sentience of their own.

The memories of Skynet’s peace offering danced through Connor’s head. How long exactly would that last? Humans were strong and did what they could but the world, his world had gone to hell much like Cevanti had started to.

And now?

Connor was a contractor for a private military company run by Sark. They ran things much like family communities, sharing everything down to the end. Much different than the chain of command given throughout the last remaining militaries on his post apocalyptic hellscape of a world.

Family…

He missed his family, his old one, his new one.

Sometimes he hated his name.

The terminator placed a hand on Connor’s shoulder reassuring him “The path you walk is a rough and lonely one but it’s lonely at the top so to speak.

How many people had died for Connor’s namesake and family?

But why him?
People saw him more than a soldier, maybe more.

Or was Connor finally letting the unmade calling to him every day in his dreams get the best of him?

 

[Karl Jak]

Face to Face
#22 Fennec Shand vs #24 Shikiria​

Shikiria had passed the daylight quietly thus far. With two of the objects in her possession and a lot of space between herself and the bunker, she had wanted to take some time to gather her wits and recover some of her strength.

Unfortunately for the mage, she heard the crackle and winced as someone popped into reality a few feet in front of her. Scrambling, Shikiria scooped up the power drill and lashed out at the other woman before she could get her bearing straight.

The bounty hunter recoiled as the whirring drill bit scraped across the skin of her injured hip but failed to find reliable purchase. In retaliation, Fennec swung the axe, which crackled and scintillated as it tore open Shikiria’s stomach. Half-charred blood started to sputter from the open gash as the mage tried to throw an errant swing at her attacker’s face. Once more, Fennec avoided the lightning-clad fist and leashed out with the Electro Axe.

The second swing cleaved through Shikiria’s neck, and the woman’s head went airborne for a few moments before landing with a wet thump next to her twitching body.

“Be glad it was quick and easy,” Fennec whispered as she took the contents of the dead woman’s bag.

Spoiler

#24 Shikiria DEAD

Fennec Shand used 1 application of Focus

Fennec Shand has a few scrapes (Minor Injury)

Fennec Shand receives Quest Item 4, Quest Item 5, and the Power Drill.

 

[Lilith]

Ugh. What's wrong with me today?!

Lilith festered in a sea of regret, contemplating how she got to this point. First, the storm from yesterday nearly consumed the duo, chasing them all the way to the edge of the safezone. An incredibly bold and risky maneuver, but it had worked out so far. Then, she avoided an item drop that had all the signs of being a death trap. Unfortunately, she miscalculated the path ahead.

All of her 'just winging it' and impulsive decision making came back to bite her in the ass. Not in the good way either. The corrosive woman figured Anders had bit the dust early, and Caustic likely thought similar. Not expecting to see any more friendly faces, Lilith jumped the literal gun, inciting an outbreak of unfriendly fire that left the spontaneous squad worse off. Her reward? A missing chunk of shoulder.

Truthfully, she didn't mind the alliance with the Arcadian anarchist. She may not understand the man's reasoning, but that mattered little to the prospect of razing a kingdom. No, what aggravated her was Anders being right. It pained her to admit her current partnership would collapse going into the final act. Two extra bodies made the future more certain.

"Now it's just one lady and three men. Hope you guys can share~" Whatever Lilith offered, the others wanted no part of it. So much for an ice breaker. "So where do we go now?"

Caustic actually consulted his map, rather than relying on his intuition alone. "Hazards surround our position on all fronts. We must carefully consider our next move—"

"Oh! What if we went back the way we came? Nobody would expect that!" Lilith proclaimed, pointing a finger 90 degrees.

"With all due respect, that is tactically unsound," replied the calm and collected scientist.

"Let's all just… keep heading forward," urged the paranoid thief, equally anxious and on the verge of comatose.

"Why, what's over there?" the giantess snapped.

"The cards whisper to me. Our solution is that way," Demetri predicted.

"Mm, yeah, I don't buy it. C’mon everyone, this way." The stubborn woman walked off, oblivious to her allies' refusal.

It was up to Anders to break up the bickering. "We can weigh all of our options and come to a mutual agreement. Surely we are all capable?"

"Okay, okay, lemme think," Lilith huffed. "Some fighting probably took place to the left, yeah? So if we go there, we can scout out whoever was there. Follow and get the drop on 'em."

"And your case, Demetri?" Anders turned the spotlight over.

"While I appreciate an insane strategy, I fail to see how this will benefit us long term. Hence why I trust the advice of my cards." Too weak to shuffle his deck now, but the thief heard the readings all the same.

The three went back and forth in their irritating debate. Caustic sought to swiftly end it. "We can proceed with both ideas. We'll go with Lilith's first."

A compromise, though it didn't seem to please any of the team.



With an unclear direction, the tenuous bonds between the four fractured like malformed bones. Lilith trudged away from the heap of fire and burnt viral flesh, one arm clutching the deep gashes on her chest. The sound of galloping hooves caught her attention, and she rushed as fast as her black-oozing body would allow. She found the injured doctor resting atop his undead steed. Exhausted and demoralized, the two stopped for a moment of respite, separated by a comfortable distance.

"One bad fuck up after another. Never doing this stupid cooperation shit again," Lilith spat, airing out all her lament.

The doctor concurred. "We already pushed the limit with our partnership. Add more competing interests to the equation, and we became a herd doomed to feed on itself."

"Hey, you're a smart guy, right? Who's to blame for this?" she rasped.

Caustic pondered for several moments, a palpable stillness in the air. "Our goals were inconsistent and misaligned. You and your target. Jak's announcements. Anders' and Demetri’s priorities. All… noise."

"I suppose… I got too focused on my desires. But why should I care about anything else?"

Caustic turned to face directly. "Are you sure that's why you're really here?"

It was a simple question. And yet, she could not answer. This whole time I've been… trying to win? She only played along with the game to seize her own personal prize— Chara. When she actually tried to, however…

The realization struck her like vengeful lightning. Her motives intertwined with each other, competitive passion guiding her actions. Abandoning one meant forfeiting both, and in her arrogance she strayed from her destined route. The revelation of her inadequacy drove her mad.

"VVRAAAAAAAUUUUGHH!!!"

Lilith took out her frustration on the bystanding trees, cleaving the bark into sizzling splinters. Towers of nature toppled by wrathful acid and bloody hatchets. She continued her slash-and-melt rampage before Caustic spoke up.

"Every great experiment has setbacks. Will you submit, or will you conquer them?"

The distraught woman's head hung low, ravenous eyes obscured. "What would Ridley do…?" she wistfully muttered.

Caustic narrowed his gaze. "You are in dire need of a reassessment, Lilith. You want to win as much as I. But you can't force your results. Patience, and the variables will walk into place."

"Hmph. That's some nice old man wisdom. It's a little late for that though, don't ya think?"

"I will prove your assumption incorrect. Let's avoid further complications." He motioned Lilith to follow his lead as he steered the Deathseeker.

"Do you have a plan?"

The resourceful scientist glanced at his bag. "I always have a plan."

Hemokinesis Damage 5

 

[Kopaka]

Riddick sat atop the Markovian bunker, staring into the encroaching twilight. The sun was slipping below what should have been the western horizon, now replaced by a tenebrous veil which offered no concrete landmarks.

His goggles were off, and he was helping himself to one of Slurt's three day old sandwiches, with a bottle of water to wash down the vaguely putrid taste. The wind shifted slightly, and he held the other half of the peanut-butter and jelly out to the unseen ninja behind him.

"No thanksh." McNinja grumbled. The doctor slumped down on the softest sheet metal he could find and pinched his nose.

"Bad luck about your face. You did the kid a good turn though. Somethin' to be proud of." Riddick rumbled. McNinja didn't reply.

"How's he doin?"

"I shet hish broken arm in a shling." the doctor shrugged.

"Cried himshelf to shleep after hearin' abou' Jeshter." the medic slurred. Talking was clearly painful for the man, so Riddick saved him the trouble of asking his next question.

"Lotsa bad news out there. See the smoke? Explosions a few minutes ago." Riddick muttered, pointing to a forested gulch to the south east. Ribbons of gray smoke twisted up out of the canopy, marking the fracas. He moved his fingers and traced a line along the nearest mountain ridge to the north. Long stretches of jungle had notable gashes in them, purple in the evening mist.

"Over there, lots of trees been falling. Lots of screams on the wind. Blood in the air…" Riddick rumbled. He swiftly scarfed down the rest of Slurt's sandwich and pitched the greasy bag into the bushes below. It would be Unmade soon enough. Whole damn planet would be garbage at this rate.

McNinja remained silent, but Riddick could see the tension in his body. Makeshift gauze on his face was slick with blood and sweat, and Riddick didn't want to imagine what his face looked like under it. McNinja was pissed, and for what it was worth, the murderer empathized with him.

"Yeah it's all pretty stupid. I'm not gonna say I told you so, but Karl Jak somehow managed to make the games even uglier by giving us the option to play nice. Saw it coming." the convict sighed.

"You know we're pretty similar. Killers by night…intimately familiar with the vascular system…a knack for first aid…"

"Pished off at Deadpool." McNinja blurted suddenly. He was staring at the screen on his navigation device, which was pinging the location of all outstanding macguffins.

One was right there in the bunker with them, but it hadn't been cashed in. Riddick tipped his goggles down to peer at the bright screen, and scowled.

"...I'll get him." the perp rumbled, standing up with a huff.

Riddick found the Merc with a Mouth milling around the bunk rooms, playing cards with what appeared to be a wooden mannequin with a green head.

"...no. No Screamsicle, I'm telling you a Flush is worth more than a Straight. I don't care what universe you're from!" Deadpool ranted. He sighed and gathered the cards up again, and began shuffling. Riddick made a disgruntled noise, and Wade's head snapped up.

"Vinnie! Oh hell yeah, pull up a chair. None of Wyatt's boys will play-"

"Go put that fucking five-ball in the machine so we can go home." Riddick interrupted. Deadpool sat back with a sneer, and continued shuffling pensively.

"Not all of us are in a hurry here Vinnie. What was that line of yours in Boiler Room? 'The only thing you need to worry about tonight is getting laid-"

"There is a beaten and broken kid down the hallway you fuckin' dweeb." Riddick snarled, gesturing in the general direction of the infirmary. Deadpool stopped shuffling, reached into his bag, and withdrew the glimmering orb.

"You want it so bad? Then sit down and put something up." Deadpool said. His voice suddenly lacked a sense of humor.

Riddick held the crimson merc's gaze for a solid minute before kicking a chair around to the card table.

"Three rounds, all or nothin'. I'll shuffle." the murderer growled. He took out the only thing he had to offer; a solid foot of titanium silverware. The hallowed Battle Spork. Surely this wack job couldn't resist such a special brand of bullshit.

"Bet."

 

[Mad Maggie]

Lilith's rage was impressive. My words seemed to appeal to her intelligence and drag her out of malicious despair. We rode along silently for a while, my chest aching. Each small, controlled cough sent a shock of ignored pain through my torso. It was impossible to dress my wounds on the stag, and we'd ridden far enough from the Gascoigne monstrosity that I felt safe dismounting. "Hold position...first step is recovery."

I slid off the stag and opened my jacket gingerly, feeling the bones scrape together under my bruised flesh. Ripping the overcoat into long strips, I started to wind them tightly around my chest, bracing the bones together and holding them from puncturing my lungs until I could get off the island. My right hand had been numb for a day already, the burned and deadened fingers nonetheless crushed and swelling. All in all, I was no more hurt than Round 3 in a Game.

And I still had the chemical to rely. My hammer had served me well against many foes, even crushing the monstrous priest's head. There was a surplus of monsters this year, and I'd been able to haunt the other contestants with my brutality. The goblin child had no business being here.

Lillith was off tending to herself, but I wondered. She had an immense capacity for damage resistance. Perhaps she'd once been something approaching human, and been able to transcend the limitations of mortality. There was no doubt in my mind that she could be killed, however. That kind of immortality was hard to come by. Everything died. Even I would. I had. And I would again before this Unmaking business had concluded.

 

[Kefka Palazzo]

“Ha!” he shout-laughed, raising his new sword into the air. His whole body trembled as he held his powerful pose, desperately ignoring the new horrible burn that he would get to add to his collection. “Oooh, that one hurts.”

He made a few mock swipes with his new toy, and attempted to find a cool way to hold both his sword and his gun at the same time. It… didn’t go great.

Kefka had settled upon a strange, two-handed stance, holding the pistol’s grip against the handle of his new sword. The blade was upside-down in a mock close-quarters battle stance. Though Kefka looked about as much an operator as he looked an accountant.

“Fuck yeah,” he whispered to himself. He knew he looked cool. So fuckin’ cool.

“Hey Jakky-Poo? I can call you Jakky-Poo, can’t I? Of course I can; I’ve given you nearly 40 percent. What say you don’t just put a little icon on my map for the bald man, hm? It does us both good, you know. You get your… ratings, and views and… however that all works. And I get to decorate that bunker of yours with a gorgeous murder tableau of the bald man for everyone to enjoy. I won’t tell you the theme – those are spoilers – but I can give you a hint: justice. Ok, bye~!”

He began for a moment, then dug his heel in the dirt. “Wait! If you could be a peach and maybe label Bald Man’s location for me? With, y’know, his name or whatever? I’d surely be cross if you’ve listed his name off during one of your ‘oh so important’ announcements and I wasn’t made aware simply because I lack the name of that delicious little ball of aggression, you know?”

His voice, honey-sweet, became matter-of-fact. “Ok. Bye for real. Bloop!”

He pressed an imaginary button on his collar and struck out in a direction that looked like a direction. With his gun and sword both in hand, raising his elbows and knees in an exaggeration of a marching soldier, Kefka traipsed along.

“Left / left / right / left!” he shouted, keeping time with each footfall of his silly march.

“I don’t know my right from left!” he chuckled. “A long / long / time ago / I heard it on the radio / sounds so good to me / I am a fucking travesty~!”

He was loudly interrupted by his stomach’s sudden and urgent gurgling. He groaned and listened to the noisy protestations of his guts.

“Wait a minute… have I eaten since I got here?” he sat down, his stomach gurgling almost comically. He punched himself in the abdomen. “Shut up.”

Kefka shrugged off his backpack, only then noticing the small Polaroid in the little mesh cupholder sewn into the pack. He retrieved it, bringing it in close.

It was a picture of the limited edition Screamsicle action figure, with bonus Kefka sidekick.

He crunched the photo in his fist, then ensconced his fist in flames, glaring at the image as it changed color and warped, before disappearing altogether. Kefka closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled through pursed lips.

Then he opened the backpack.

“Are you kidding me, Jak? That’s… ooooh… that’s kind of funny. I’ll stick with that forty percent for now.”

He looked down at the small, potted cactus that had been carefully placed in a bubble-wrapped nest within Kefka’s bag. Aside from the plant and the bubble wrap, there wasn’t anything else at all in the bag.

His eye twitched.

Kefka looked up at the sky, imagining Karl’s big, stupid face looking down at him. Kefka took a mighty bite from the succulent, ignoring the needles that pierced into his face and lips, and started to chew.

“Delicious,” he hissed, even as little rivers of scarlet ran over the corners of his mouth and down his chin.