Death Game - Registrations/Sign-Up (IC)

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The Man in Red

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Note: Before you sign up, make sure you have read and understand all the rules, as posted here, especially part 10 and those pertaining to signing up and joining.

All across the Crossroads, with exception to the ruins of Govermorne of course... There are now found the suddenly appearing facades of an organization calling itself the Carnivale Rosa. Everything from simple tents, small rented office spaces, to entire small facilities and tiny communities in more violent areas. Some of these places are staffed, or at least filled out and assisted by locals of the area, though the majority are filled with the always helpful, always bemused, and always masked attendants and employees of the enigmatic group.

They are in the business of entertainment, and the one who sits at the head of the mysterious group has enough connections, power, money, influence, or...something to have 'safely' settled his group and workers into nearly every location of the Crossroads to let their business flourish and get underway.

At these various assorted facilities and stations, there will be countless people in the business of attracting viewers and competitors to a new event they're working on. A huge show, they claim it to be, of the most wonderful kind of entertainment. Prizes on offer for the competitors, and plenty of fame to be had when it is broadcast for all to see. A game, it is, of death and survival! Surviving against the elements, against time, against each other, against themselves...against all odds! They aren't in the business of discouraging anyone from joining, but do advise anyone and everyone to be...prepared for the eventual end of things, in whatever fashion that those who sign up are most comfortable with.


Threads for the pre-show/staging/warm-up will be up sometime today or tonight, as I can get them written up.
Sign-ups will officially last until 11:59 PM EST on November 6th.
 
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Eye peering about and head alight with purple flame, The Prisoner moved through the war-wracked city of Markov. Beyond the walls, savage Zoids battled against the men and women who defended this city, and even deep within its heart the sound of battle could be heard over the general din of the citizens. Even before Darkseid turned Cevanti into a battle zone, the populace of this world had been confined within Markov's walls. Despite being used to the forced asylum, there still clung to the air a scent of desperation and fear, though The Prisoner lacked the necessary senses to smell it.

Fortunately, the citizenry seemed used to the odd traveler or so, and though they gave The Prisoner a wide berth, it appeared to have more to do with his flaming head than any actual apprehension towards it. Well… most of them avoided it. One in particular made his way towards the undead, a wide, shit-eatting grin on his face. Other than the creepy smile and unsettling vibe, the man was rather plain, if a bit out of place in his garb. Brown hair slicked back framed grey eyes, and his face was lightly bearded. Though not of exquisite make, his choice of blue button-up and brown khakis was in stark contrast to the relative squalor about them.

The Prisoner's flame shifted to a teal-ish hue, his expressive eye narrowing considerably at the man's approach. With a shallow, empty laugh, the man put up his hands in apparent surrender, yet still moved forward until he was standing before the undead.

"Hey man! Name's Jeff," the man greeted it, producing a clipboard seemingly from the air itself and holding it in one hand where he could easily reference it.

"I'm here to offer you the opportunity of a lifetime! Ever heard of Dante's Abyss?"

A pregnant silence fell between the two, The Prisoner's head shifting to a fuller green as it shrugged.

"No?" Jeff continued, chuckling wryly. "Newcomer, huh? No biggie. I hear the boss is new round these parts too. Anyway, its this little GameSpot thing, right? Go to an island, survive for awhile, win prizes. Easy peasy. Well, the boss is doing the same thing, but basically better in every way! And all you gotta do is sign up right here and you're in!"

Eye narrowing once more, The Prisoner crossed its arms as its flame flashed to a dark blue.

"Alright, I get it. Too good to be true, right? Well… I gotta level with ya, buddy, there might be a tiny chance that you'll die during this thing. But, I doubt it. Look atcha! Now that's a specimen if I ever saw one. You'll probably win the whole deal! And the boss said the winner will have whatever their heart most desires granted to them? Sounds good, yeah?"

Gaze moving from the man, The Prisoner raised a hand to where its chin would be, tapping its arm with its other hand. Soon enough, it shrugged and, with a hue change to purple, held out its hand to the man.

"You're in? Fucking fantastic, bro! And I like the whole 'man of few words' shtick; I think it'll go over great with the audience! Just follow me over to the tent and we'll get you all taken care of!"
 

Karl Jak

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The man adjusted his lapels before leaning over to pick up his briefcase. Up ahead of him, the queue continued to progress at a lazy pace—an indictment on whatever crew had been pieced together to man this station.

“So what brings you to these parts?” A voice asked behind the man.

Craning his next, the businessman’s features twisted up slightly as he looked at the hulking, four-armed behemoth standing behind him. Unsure exactly how to respond to someone who looked as if they had more limbs than braincells, the businessman lifted his briefcase and gestured to it with his head. “Official matters.”

The four-armed fighter crinkled his brow as he stared long and hard at the Dolce & Gabanna attaché case. “You’re going to kill people with a handbag?”

The man in the three-piece suit scowled, but he was able to pass the will save needed to keep his real thoughts bottled up in his well-coifed skull. “No, I’m not an entrant. I just have to deliver these.”

“Is it a bomb? A big gun?” The goliath asked as the line continue to advance toward the queuing station at its glacial pace.

“… No,” the man in the suit repeated. “They’re just legal documents.”

The titanic, bare-chested fighter frowned as the reality finally set in for him. “Oh, that makes Orog sad. Explosions are fun.”

“Yes,” the businessman agreed. “We can both agree that a good explosion is a lovely thing to behold.”

A smile spread across the four-armed warrior’s features before he lifted on of his meaty fists. “You are up next.”

The businessman craned his neck and saw that, indeed, he was next in the queue. Had there not just been about a dozen more people in this line? Had they all been in the same party or something?

Shrugging his shoulders, the man made a final adjustment to his attire and made his way to the attendant who operated the station.

“Greetings.”

The worker, who seemed a little frayed around the edges, lifted his head up from a stack of paper and blinked a few times before offering a groggy reply. “Hey.”

After a quick glance around the facility, the man in the suit returned his gaze to the overworked staffer. “You are the only one here?”

“Yea,” the man mumbled as he reached for a nearby cup of coffee. “I’m Alex. How may I help you today?”

Lifting his suitcase, the businessman popped it open and retrieved the pile of legal documents contained within. After glancing through the stack, he plucked a sheet out from the middle and slid it across the counter toward the nonplussed worker. “This is for you and your employer.”

Alex blinked a few times before glancing down at the document. “This is a—”

“It is a formal cease and desist request from Syntech, LLC.”

“Oh, you’re that guy.”

“Yes, I am that guy,” Karl Jak replied before adjusting his collar. “You’ll find that my employer would like for you to desist, as they intend to file claims of copyright infringement in regard to their ‘Dante’s Abyss’ intellectual property.”

“Oh, no, I know, dude,” Alex replied as he handed the paper back. “Your guys faxed over something a few hours ago.”

“What?” Karl replied as the attendant handed him a piece of paper.

“It’s from your boss.”

Karl scowled as he lifted the piece of paper with Syntech’s official letterhead. “Hey, Karl, I’m sorry you couldn’t get this letter directly, but sometimes emails get lost among all the hustle and bustle. You can blame it on all those damn remote meetings and all the emails they seem to automatically vomit into our mailboxes. You know what I’m talking about, right?” Karl scowled, because of course he understood what the author was talking about. “Anyway, I had a lovely conversation with some people at the Carnivale, and we both think it’s in our mutual interest to ‘grow the (blood) sport’ through cooperation, rather than competition or dreaded legal battles.” Karl groaned as he set the paper down. “So I wasted me time.”

“There’s a back side,” Alex remarked.

The executive producer flipped over the paper. “In light of this, I decided that you’re going to sign up to participate! Isn’t that lovely? It’ll be a super fun cameo, and it’ll help grow our brand as much as it will assist them in driver viewership figures as you get bludgeoned and murdered. Great, isn’t it? You know it’s brilliant. Don’t lie.” Again, Karl knew it was brilliant, and he could not lie. “All the information is being processed, so you’re free to proceed to their preshow area. Don’t get lost, since I’m sure it will be totally unknown to you.

“All the love and smooches,

“-Karl Jak.”


Karl put the paper on the desk and scowled at the young man.

“So, you and your boss have the same name?”

“You might say that,” Karl Jak said with a sneer as he looked at the shoddy teleportation technology. “That thing isn’t going to turn me into a fly, is it? Or put my arm in my asshole, right? I prefer to save that stuff for anniversaries.”

Alex furrowed his brow. “Nah, you’re good. Your paperwork is apparently being transmitted digitally, so you can go ahead.”

“Lovely,” Karl Jak groaned as he felt a vibration in his jacket pocket. As he stepped around the counter and to the pad, he retrieved his phone and scanned the email as the technology warmed back up.

“Dear Karl, I’ll get you a Syntech survival back shortly after you arrive, so just keep an eye out for that, okay? It’s the least we can do. Smooches, ~KJ.”

“Gee, thanks, Karl,” Karl muttered as he vanished in a swirl of light particles.
 

Ganondorf

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Gengar could barely contain his snickering. The moon hanging in the velvety sky bathed the swaying grass field with light, almost as bright as dawn. A woman sat relaxed amongst the grass, holding herself up with one hand against the ground, and tossed a dewy eyed look over her shoulder, her smile growing. A man strolled lazily toward her, his long hair blowing in the night breeze, in no hurry to reach his beloved. He held a single red rose behind his back, letting it swing with each of his steps.

Stars glittered in the sky like diamonds at the bottom of a darkened lake. Only the wind and the rustle of the long grass made a sound; even the crickets were silent for their rendezvous. Lantern light burned far in the distance, marking their home village, but there was not another soul around.

Well, Gengar thought to himself, except for me.

The ghost Pokemon bobbed in the man’s shadow, melding perfectly with it. His presence was unknown; he made no sound and the man failed to see him slip into the darkness. Gengar hung in that shade like a man floating in the ocean, needing no propulsion, soaking in the moment.

The woman’s smile shrank – still smiling, but less intense, more intimate – as the man approached. Gengar sank deeper into the shadow, fearing the glee at the anticipation could cause him to break out his gossamer-thin hiding place. He took a breath to still himself, focusing. He had to wait for the exact, perfect moment to enact his plan. Half of the fun was picking that moment, right when the terror would crescendo without limit. It was a skill that took much practice, but he had plenty of that, and he would have plenty more in the future.

The man kneeled by his paramour, turning to the side so that his shadow cast to his right side, mingling with the woman’s. Gengar could see everything here. This was the best place he could possibly be. Without any trees around, there were no other shadows to dip into, forcing him to rely on the human shadows for concealment. But with the moon positioned where it was, he couldn’t have asked for a better seat.

With a flourish, the man revealed the rose behind his back. The woman gasped, her eyes wide and drinking in moonlight. She took the rose gently and brought the petals to her nose, closing her eyes as she imbibed the flower’s sweet scent. She opened her eyes again as the man lowered himself to the ground, making an indentation in the swaying grass. Their gazes met, wide and to the exclusion of all else. Their eyes darted to the other’s lips. Their chests rose and fell with great heaves.

Gengar’s crimson eyes appeared in the man’s shadow. So close!

Dipping their eyelids, the two humans slowly, achingly, leaned towards each other. Their lips parted as they drew close. The moon positioned between them vanished behind their profiles as their mouths hovered inches from one another, savouring the moment as best they could.

Now!

Gengar exploded from the man’s shadow, stubby arms raised, and threw out his tongue. They hadn’t noticed him just yet – they were too engrossed in each other’s presence – so he cleared his throat, preparing for a spine-melting roar.

Wait. Gengar hadn’t cleared his throat. Where did that sound come from?

Another man stood behind the couple, holding a staff, smiling. He wore a faded black robe and an impressive, chest-length beard, mostly white streaked with black. His long hair matched the beard, rolling down his shoulders. He didn’t seem too old, especially judging from his wrinkle-free eyes and forehead. Gengar’s glee dropped. Who the hell was this, and why was he ruining his fun?!

The man and woman turned at the throat clear. They startled – startled, damn it – at the sight of the sudden appearance of the bearded man and Gengar. But there was no scream. No cry of terror. No jumping to their feet and sprinting for the safety of their village, sobbing all the way. They did seem perplexed by Gengar’s appearance, so that was something, but still – damn it!

“So sorry to interrupt your evening,” the bearded man said congenially. “My... uh... pet has been most elusive. I saw him here and saw an opportunity to bring him home.”

“My goodness,” the man said, “we didn’t hear you approach!”

The robed man shrugged. “Invisibility spell. Saves having to explain this thing’s appearance. Usually.”

Gengar stared at the man incredulously. What was he playing at?

“Well,” the man said, standing and helping his companion to her feet, “I’m glad you have found your... pet. Please excuse us, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, not at all! Please, enjoy the rest of your evening.”

The man and woman joined hands, stared lovingly at each other, and strolled further into the grassy field. No doubt to a new location where they could be intimate. Ugh.

Gengar spun at the wizard. “What the hell are you doing?! You’re sorry for spoiling their evening?!”

The man chuckled, dropping the staff and shedding the robe. He wore a white, buttoned shirt with long sleeves and black trousers. He removed an elastic band from behind his head that attached to the beard, apparently fake, and threw that down as well. The long wig came off to reveal short, sandy blonde hair.

“You’re not some wizard,” Gengar said. “You’re just some office jerk! What are you doing in Erde Nona, of all places? This isn’t like Kanto! They’re all like people from fantasy novels here!”

“Astute, Mr. Gengar,” the man said, pulling out a mobile phone from his pocket. At least, Gengar thought that’s what it was. Its entire face was glass, one big screen. Where were the keys? The antenna at the top? “I need to be in costume here. My normal attire would raise too many eyebrows in this land. I’m Scott, and I’m here to discuss a fantastic opportunity with you.”

“It better involve scaring chumps, and a lot of them!” Gengar said, floating to the man’s eye level. “You just cost me a really good fright!”

“Oh, I think you’ll really like this,” Scott said. “After all, you spent so long with Agatha as one of the reigning Elite Four. In fact, you were her strongest Pokemon, weren’t you? A Ghost-type who was rarely ever beaten.”

“I... what?” Gengar said, frowning. “How did you...”

“Oh, we know a lot about you and your life, Mr. Gengar. Please, if you don’t mind.” Scott gestured toward a small stall beneath a striped canopy. How... how long had that been there?

Gengar hovered along after him, more curious at the situation than interested in what he was proposing. Actually, Scott hadn’t said what he was proposing yet. But Gengar had to know. Especially after his night had been so thoroughly ruined.

Scott stood behind the stall. Gengar could see a circular steel pad next to the stall now that he was closer, cloaked by the blades of grass encircling it. Scott swiped a finger across the glass-screened device and tapped it a few times.

“Now Mr. Gengar, what I propose to you is a chance to live out your glory days once again,” Scott said. “There is an island. An island where you will be placed, among other like-minded contestants, where you will battle it out to be the very last surviving participant!”

“Surviving?” Gengar said. “You mean, there will be killing?”

“Well, yes.”

Gengar cocked an eyebrow. While Agatha had expressly forbidden murder, it was a fancy that struck him and his kind on occasion. Not mass murders, just fun little killings when the circumstances were just right. Since he was his own Pokemon now, he could indulge in such things.

“Go on.”

“If you can outwit, outplay and outlast everyone else on the island, you will be the winner!”

“And the prize?”

Scott smiled. “That’s a secret. But rest assured, it will be worthy of the danger and effort you expend to win. And all the while, you can showcase those amazing skills you honed in the Indigo Plateau.”

Gengar floated about, stroking at his chin. “So a murder island. No cops?”

Scott shook his head. “All perfectly... law-enforcement free.”

“I note you didn’t say ‘above board’ or ‘legal,’ Gengar said. He then smiled. “Not that either of those things matter to me.”

“So... what do you say?”

Gengar nodded thoughtfully. “I’m in! Let’s kill some rubes!”

“Excellent!” Scott said, tapping his screen again. The circular pad lit up blue. “Please stand on the teleporter and you will be ushered to the waiting room. Best of luck to you, Mr. Gengar! You are one of my favourite Pokemon!”

“Of course I am,” Gengar said, alighting on the circular pad. “Who couldn’t love a face like this?

Gengar cackled as he vanished in a halo of blue light.
 

Shallan Davar

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They came for us while we was sleeping, precious. The nasty men with their hats and their false smiles. We heard their clumsy feet flapping near our home. We were famished, and so we came to see who it was. We were a gracious host, hopped down to see them with a cackle and a grin, no sneakings, no theivings. They did not trust us, precious. The three, the three with their skin hats, they held their smiles, but they kept their weaponses pointed at us as they spoke. They wanted us to play in their little game, precious. But they would not play there, we had to go elsewhere to play. We wondered, precious, we did, what game they wished to play, but we did not trust them.

They promised us things. Oh, they offered us so many things, precious! They promised us gold, in heaps and piles. But we have no need for shiny trinkets, we would not betray the precious! The stupid one he said we would be famous if we won, that we would be in storieses, but we only chuckled at him, and he shrank away. Storieses are good fun, but we can makes those for ourselves, and better than others, so why would we go with them, precious? They did not know what else to offer us precious, but we was having fun playing with them so we did not eat them yet. One may have seen our hunger, precious. They spoke next, offering us food, the best foods we hadn’t tried yet, foods we had not even imagined. We was famished, precious, but still we refused. They would not tells how to play the game yet, precious, and we would *NOT* be cheated again!

We were growing angry then, and hungry. We needed something to gnaw on, precious, our mouth watered as we looked at them. We did not need to eats them whole, that would be too much at once precious, it would make our stomach hurt! An arm would do, just an arm. We slunk closer, precious, and this scared the fat one. He shot us precious, he shot US! He shot us with a little tiny arrow from his firestick! We screamed at them and leaped, precious, pouncing on the tricksy fat one. We bit his neck as he screamed, but they were fast precious, and we were growing sleepy. We could not break free of the nets and the ropeses they threw on us precious, and we fell asleep, soon… so soon after our napping.

Now we are stuck, precious. They keep us in this cage, this nasty, stupid cage. We tried to gnaw our way free precious, but it is metal, and we would just break our teeth. The nasty men sits nearby, around their fire. They makes us unhappy by trapping us, so we makes them unhappy too. We wails precious, we makes such a racket, that they cannot thinks! Oh they shout at us, precious, they curse at us, and slam the bars of our cage, yes, but they will not hurt us. They wants us to looks our best soon, looks our best for their game, so we do not need to be scared of them. They can shout at us and curse at us but we will sing, precious, all the same!

They keeps us in the cage until the yellow face was gone away and the white face was high overhead. Their fire was burned low to embers and the men were so tired of our clamor they had stopped speaking, precious, they just sat there, waiting. Then a new one came, precious, not a trapsman with their skin hats, precious, this one was fancy, like an elfs or a kings, but he was not an elfs, and not a kings either we thinks. He gave the wicked men a pouch that clinked, precious, then came over to see us.

We stops our wailings as the fancy man approaches us. We tilts our head, back and forth, looking at him from all sorts of angles as he watches us. This one would be bad eating, precious, they looked so worn and angled, too bony by half, with stringy, sticky gristle.

“Hellos!” We says finally, and he smiles at us precious, another false smiler!

“Hello there!” the fancy man says back, “You are a sorry little wonder aren’t you!”

We scowls at his flattery, precious, we do not trusts him. He wants us to play the game too, we bets. We knows!

“We don’t wants to play *Gollum* we won’t play, precious!”

“That will be your choice. But it’ll be in your best interest to.” The false simperer says, and he holds up a little box to his ear. He steps away to talk to it, precious, but we clamber up the bars of the cage so we can hears him anyway. he talks to the box like we used to talks to the precious sometimes, but he seems angry with it. We would never treat our precious that ways, this man is wicked…

He puts the box away in his pocketses and comes back to speak with us more. He holds a different box this time, with a little flashing light. It looks like a firefly, precious, stuck to his box. He holds it in front of him and looks at us.

“What is your name, then?” he asks us. We only scowls, sliding down the bars to stare at him closer. We gollums at him roughly, but that only makes the fancy wicked man smile more.

“Alright, Gollum, what will you do if I let you out of this cage?” He asks, his wicked smiles only getting bigger! He taunts us precious! He teases us, he teases poor Sméagol! He will not let us out of this cursed cage, we knows it! We hates the fancy wicked man and his false smiles!

“We will follow you, precious!” We murmurs, staring at him and his stupid flashing boxses.

“We will follow you in the darkness, and we shall be quiet, so quiet, yes! *Gollum* and when you gets tired, precious, when you gets sleepy and your eyelids close, then we shall come, and we shall close our hands around your throat, precious! We shall kills you! *Gollum* *Gollum*

We sneaks a hand through the cage and reaches for the false man, but he sees us, precious, and he steps away with a laugh. We do not think he is very funny. We drops off the bars, and slinks back to the far end of cage, the false man is still smiling as he puts away his stupid blinking box.

“Perfect!” He pulls out his smaller box again, and talks to it, but nicer this time. Our threats only seem to have amused him, precious, he does not fear us. He should…

“It’s me again. Yeah, I got the intro, all ready to go. I don’t think we’re gonna want to let this guy roam around the facility beforehand, it’d be better just to drop him straight to the island.”

He walks away from the cage, precious, so we cannot hears the rest of what he says. An island, precious? We shall be put on an island? This is a curious game, oh indeed! We do not wants to play, but they makes us play anyway? How will they keeps us from swimming away, precious? We can just steals a boat and we would be away. No… no… they are tricksy and false, they will have plans and schemes, precious. But we will be smarter than them, precious, they cannot traps us, precious, not for goods. They will regrets this, that we can promise!
 

King Shark

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He woke up moments before it happened - maybe it was their footsteps outside of the door coupled with how light of a sleeper he was. Maybe it was a coincidence, and he was due to wake up at that moment regardless.

Whatever it was, Katsuki Bakugo was seconds into waking when he heard a knock at the door. Rhythmic thuds, slow and spaced apart, but deliberate and authoratative. The first thing that sprung to his mind was 'police' before he reminded himself that he had not (recently) done anything wrong. In fact, he'd been praised for his heroics by the local community for the past week.

He sat up quickly but carefully to avoid prompting any telling creaks from his shoddy fold-out mattress. Even in the low light of the office-apartment given off by a single lamp it was quickly apparent that he was the only one in the room - Deku and Todoroki, for whatever reason, were absent. Also absent were the ordinary street noises that typically filtered in from the city beyond, indicating to the keen Katsuki that dawn had not yet broken. Whoever was hammering on his door, they were doing it in the dead of the night, and he didn’t care much for that. He donned a mantle of caution as he rose to his feet and slunk carefully through the room.

Then, he pressed himself against the wall beside the door, and carefully turned the handle.

The door cracked open on its own, and then was pushed the rest of the way to make room for not one but two tall men who filed into the room one after another. Oddities in red uniforms, they matched one another well and were cut from the same mold. That mold was one of lean muscle and rigid posture. One, however, was a few inches shorter than the other.

And they both looked puzzled as they took inventory of what was an apparently empty room, aside from two desks and a couple of fold out cots that comprised Heroes for Hire’s office decor.

“Who are you?” growled Katsuki, from his spot in the shadows beside the door.

The intruders whipped around and were met by the sight of Bakugo’s outstretched arm ending in the spread maw of his right hand which crackled, hissed, and popped with the promise of explosive power. The sweet burnt sugar scent of nitroglycerin filled the room, which provided Baku with a familiar comfort. His power brought him confidence.

The shorter of the two invaders spoke first, bringing up two hands in the universal sign of ‘don’t shoot’. They both wore masks, and oddly enough, Katsuki observed that they were both dressed rather extravagantly. Their outfits were near to the style of a circus ringleaders, or really outlandish butlers.

“We come bearing opportunity!” announced the shorter man exuberantly, spreading his arms wide. “We come as pallbearers...pallbearers? That might the wrong term. We come as...um...we come as…”

The larger man cut in, his voice deeper, and also more concise. “We’ve got an invitation.”

“Right!” the first man agreed, butting back in. “An invitation! We come as invitation bearers, and YOU! -” he pointed right at Bakugo. “Are invited!”

Despite the circumstance of their entry Baku did feel any progression in his initial sense of danger from these emerging eccentrics, but nonetheless he kept his threatening hand displayed to convey a message.

“Invited to what?” he asked, tone flinty.

“Well, you’ve heard of Dante’s Abyss,” prompted the first man jovially, and then waited for his partner to pick up on his queue. ...the second man did not seem keen on speaking, however, and after an uncomfortably long pause the first man frowned then plowed on undaunted. “Now it’s time for you to hear of...drumroll...DEATH GAME!”

The shorter man in red did an awkward shuffle that Bakugo supposed was intended to be a dance of some sort, and then performed some hands-in-the-air jazz hands.

“So, that’s some kind of...Dante’s Abyss knockoff?” asked Katsuki, thoroughly unimpressed.

He recalled spectating the event in question on the dorm hall television back before his expulsion from UA. There were times when he’d fallen asleep in front of the television and awoke to announcements of death or betrayal. Other times, he’d tune in to find hosts and celebrities from around the Crossroads yapping about contestants. Screamsicle this, or cowboy that. He’d often imagined himself in a survival scenario, competing for fame and glory, but hadn’t figured he’d actually end up a contestant - let alone a contestant of a knock-off.

On top of that, entering such a contest would certainly delay the purchase of his mansion. He’d need major incentives to miss that.

“...and what do I get out of that?” the bemused teen asked, and though he tried to sound disinterested, he couldn’t keep some modicum of curiosity from trickling into his voice.

“Oh, there will be prizes! That mansion you’ve been eyeing!? Yours! Furniture, money, a heroes’ gym! All of it, yours! All you’ve gotta do is…” and the more talkative recruiter paused again.

This time his quiet friend took the prompt. “...murder every single other contestant and make it to the end of the competition without dying.”

The first guy tensed up, and Bakugo imagined he was grimacing behind the painted wooden mask he wore.

“Well, yeah. ...pretty much, actually.”

Bakugo stood, considering, and then lowered his crackling hand. The scent of burnt sugar dissipated from the room.

“Whatever.”

---

In the ensuing hour, he’d hastily dressed, gathered no belongings (he was told he wouldn’t be able to take them anyway), scrawled out a messy note to Deku detailing what he’d occurred, and then been ushered out of his rundown office and into the street by his eccentric escorts.

He’d been taken to a walled off area that, as far as he could tell, resembled a hastily assembled movie set. His initial assessment had been quickly reinforced when he was pushed into hair and makeup, where he begrudgingly allowed a staff of crimson clothed strangers to fawn over his appearance and make adjustments to everything from the angles his ash blonde hair were jutting, to the circles under his eyes which they whittled away with makeup. It was all rather unpleasant, and Bakugo could feel his famous temper threatening to flare up and make a scene.

And yet…

There was a simmering excitement beneath his irritated exterior. When had he ever really been able to cut loose? Heroes were bound by rules, and even when he found the opportunity to bend some of those rules, there was always the mosquito whine of Izuku Midoriya in his ear reminding him to be moral, to be just, to be a motherfucking priss with no spine.

Here was an opportunity to really step out and step up. This was a chance to gain a reputation as a deadly fighter, and also to accumulate some fame for his business to boot. And the odds of loss? Small. Very small. The folks in this ‘Death Game’ wouldn’t know what hit them.

He found himself placed in front of a camera, and was soon peppered with a litany of questions.

“So - for the hero the Arcadian papers are calling Ground Zero - how do you see yourself behaving on the island?” asked a bubbly woman with blue hair and what looked like fins for ears. She had a long amphibious looking tail jutting out of her aft end, and Bakugo surmised she must be some hybrid species.

“Dangerously,” answered Bakugo with a quirk of his lips. He looked into the camera with his eyes, two gleaming rubies, and stared. “Without any pesky little sidekicks bogging me down, I am going to turn the island into a bloodbath. I’m going to kill every single idiot stupid enough to step to me, and then -” he snapped, and a small ‘pop’ of ignition sparked from his thumb and forefinger as a dazzling ball of flame. “- I will purge any trace that they’d ever been there from this universe.”

There was a silence.

“Well! That was unnerving!” chimed in the interviewer nervously. She looked uncomfortable. “You heard it here first folks! The explosive entry of Ground Zero: Katsuki Bakugo!”

And with that she quickly hastened the interview to a close. Bakugo was led to a teleporter, which he strode towards with a proprietary lope looking every bit as wolfish and predatory as he was feeling.

Let the games begin.
 

Arno Timber

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The sun had begun to set.

Shadows crept along the jungle floor, heralding the deep dark of night. With it came the incessant calls of nocturnal creatures, awakening to begin their nights hunt. But they were used to this. They too had their own hunt.

Bloodhound stalked through the undergrowth of the jungle, paying close attention to the ground. They stopped, occasionally, to ensure their quarry hadn’t given them the slip. Artur cawed in the distance, giving them reassurance that they were indeed on the right path.

A couple of hours prior, Bloodhound caught the faint sounds of an explosion, far above the canopy of the jungle. They tracked down the source of the sound as a ship careened from the atmosphere and crash landed into the trees. Miraculously, the crew had managed to survive — no doubt, the Allfather had been watching over them — and had disembarked the ship. They overheard a brief conversation. According to the one who was piloting the ship, something had managed to collide with the engines. It was sucked through and tore it asunder. They were headed for a settlement somewhere nearby, New Abraxas. Something to do with recruiting. It mattered little to the Hunter. All they needed to do was trail them until they reached the settlement. But, given the surroundings, intervening when they inevitably stumble across a nocturnal predator seemed likely.

“I can’t see shit!” One of the crew called out, Bloodhound heard, muttering under their breath.

“Someone get a torch going or something.. We’re stumblin’ over our own asses out here!”

“That’s probably not a good idea.. I was watching some documentary about-”

“Would you shut up? I’m not sure but I think the entire population of dangerous wild animals heard about you and your pissin’ documentary.”

“I’m serious.. If you light something up in here, it’s just like a giant neon sign saying ‘Come here and eat us!’”

“Yeah? Well, I can’t see. If you wanna get outta here alive, surely being able to see that we ain’t running to the edge of a cliff or somethin’ should be a higher priority.”

Bloodhound shook their head a few times as they approached a little closer. They heard the sounds of a match being struck and then a larger torch being engulfed in flame. The immediate area was bathed in fire light, flickering and wafting in the light breeze that swept through the trees. A hush fell over the jungle. Bloodhound grimaced behind the mask. The crew had frozen in place as they adjusted to the sudden bright light of the torch. The hunter scaled a nearby tree and took up position above them, eagerly pulling the Kraber rifle from its resting position and braced it against their shoulder, peering through the scope.

“There’s something out there- We’re not gonna make it to that settlement!” Now that Bloodhound could plainly see the members of the crew. There were five in total, four larger men and women and the one who was speaking stood a little shorter than the rest.

“Well, you ain’t wrong.” One of the burly men drawled, squinting out into the darkness beyond the sanctuary of their light.

Artur fluttered in and landed cleanly next to Bloodhound. Normally, they’d have given some reaction when Artur returned. However, they were a little distracted. They’d trained their sights on their target and squeezed the trigger. The crew of the ship whirled around as the hunter’s rifle fired, a deafening roar shook the area as it discharged it’s round. The smaller of the group clapped his hands around his ears and dropped to his knees. The round slammed into its target’s chest. A jet-black feline burst into the area, six-legged and with a pair of monstrous tentacles extending from it back. It skidded to a halt before the group. The entire wound was relatively small, but the exit wound was a stark contrast. The shot had practically blown the beasts foreleg off. It attempted to crawl away but the shock of the shot had started to spread. It was completely off kilter and barely managed to move a few feet.

The hunter descended the tree, landing in the midst of the crew. They holstered the Kraber and brought their R-301 up to bear.

“Get down.” Bloodhound spoke. The crew all dropped to their knees.

“Bless me with sight!” Bloodhound called out as the Eye of the Allfather activated.

2 Hostiles Detected

They brought the R-301 up to their shoulder and squeezed the trigger as another of the feline creatures burst into the light. Round after round sunk into its jet black fur. It hit the ground and growled its last breath, not but a few inches from the face of one of the crew.

The second beast stalked the outskirts of the light. This one took its time, rather than diving headlong at a meal. Bloodhound lowered the rifle from their shoulder, letting it drop to their side, hanging from a sling. It had already lost two of its companions. Turning back into the darkness, it let out a mournful howl as it disappeared.

Bloodhound turned to face the remaining beast that whimpered and still attempted to crawl away from the crew. With a sigh, the hunter pulled a knife from its sheath at their hip.

“Your journey is at its end.” They whispered softly, kneeling beside the beast, “Allfather watch over you.” Bloodhound sunk the blade into the beasts chest, instantly drawing and end to its suffering. The surrounding crew rose to their feet, features devoid of any colour.

“You.. saved us. Who are you? Where.. Where did you come from?” One of the men asked.

"I am Blóðhundr, you can call me Bloodhound."

“Bloodhound.. Did you come from New Abraxas?”

“I did not. I sought shelter, just as you did. Though, these beasts were tracking you since you disembarked your ship. I, too, have been trailing you in hopes that you would lead me to this settlement.”

“We.. jeez. We can take you there if you can keep us safe?”

“I will escort you the rest of the way. What do you know of this settlement?”

“Nothin’ really.” Another piped up, “We were headed there to set up shop.. A recruitment station for Carnivale Rosa. We’re uh.. Hosting a game, if you will. Somethin’ I reckon you’d do well in. We should uh.. Walk and talk, though, right? It’s like a half day's trek to New Abraxas from here.” He consulted his wrist mounted HUD and nodded.

“Lead the way. You can explain this game as we walk.”

New Abraxas​

“A game of death? I am familiar with the concept. I have taken part in and won the Apex Games three times.”

“So you’re in?”

“I will taka victory and slátra.”
 

Raal Deathwind

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Weiss sat back against the fence to a nearby hunting lodge, questioning again what exactly it was she was doing here.

It had been a few weeks since she'd landed on Kraw, and she wasn't really feeling her sea legs just yet. She'd taken a few jobs since she'd been on Kraw - nothing big, since she hadn't quite felt motivated to go for a hunter's license, but enough to give her some meager supplies.

Still, outside of clothes, some extra equipment, and a few meals to pretend she still needed to eat to the locals, she really didn't need much.

Nothing she could ask them for, at least, as she continued to ignore the stomach pains.

Sometimes she'd feel a little calmer after she'd relaxed, or after she'd been in a battle, but the hunger in her body - for souls, specifically of the sapient persuasion - never really left her. It was the feeling of starvation that had stalked her since long before she'd left her previous dimension. Back then, people had existed, cures had potentially existed, even if they were far out of reach. here...

She sighed. She didn't know what scared her more: The idea of living with this for the rest of her life, or how hard it would be to get back onto the right path if she ever slipped even once. the idea of never having to go through this again was tantalizing, and if she was ever asked to deny herself again, knowing just how much unending torment awaited her... she didn't know if she could bring herself not to follow her instincts.

The huntress brought two hands to her arms, shivering at the thought as she stared forward. She refused to become one of those psychos that infested the Omniverse with self-justified atrocities, no matter what. her resolve hadn't changed here.

"-but it gets a little harder every day, right?" A voice called out.

Weiss turned to see a rather plain, brown-haired woman standing out in broad daylight. The dissheveled creature - Weiss had some concerns about it being a human, given it had snuck up on her - had clearly seen better days. Thin and gaunt in the arms, with rather sunken eyes complimenting long brown hair.

Weiss would have had sympathy if suspicion hadn't immediately taken it's place.

"Who are you, and how are you doing that?"

"Easy." The humanoid added, swaying back a bit and putting their hands up to show they were completely disarmed. "I'm just here to deliver a message for the boss."

"If he wants to offer me a job, he can do it himself." Weiss snapped, but she didn't turn away. This person didn't look threatening, but she'd seen a few 'nonthreatening' people turn out to be surprisingly dangerous. hell, one of them used to be her boss!

"No, no, not a job. A contest."

"And you felt the need to seek me out, in particular?"

"Well, boss is a fan of your work. and he figured he could offer a terrific favor for a hero like you."

Weiss groaned. "If he's trying to offer me some horrifying corruptive power, let him know I'm not interested."

"Oh, no, it's just that we figured we'd offer ya something nice. ya know, in exchange for ya totally owning Shademan, like ya did.

That caused Weiss to freeze up, turning her eyes to meet the strangers own with her full attention, now. The first thing might've been a lucky guess based off her face, but Shademan.EXE, and the whole Dark Data incident, was something very exclusive to her particular past.

"Yeah, boss knows a lot about'cha. He also knows about your whole, uhhh, Soul-eating problem."

Weiss gave the man a wary look. "...And what does he know about it?"

"Well, how to cure it, for one thing. Give you a chance to figure it out."

And there it was. the poison dart in the raisin tart. Weiss put a hand to her face as she left the other one resting on her sword-hilt. "...So I'm assuming the chance is dangerous... and immoral."

"Well, definitely the first! only kind of the second... See, we're hoping you'd be interested in a little jig called 'the death game'."

"Oh, what a wonderful name. What sort of psychopathic-"

"Wow, wow, lemme finish so I can tell ya! See, get this. island. You. Bunch of other competitors. you do a whole, battle royale-style fight across the island. If you win, you fix your soul-sucking situation. If you lose..."

"I die, and probably boost ratings... hey, wait..."

Weiss took a moment to remember, but the thought hit her. From the place she'd come from, there was a similar idea, wasn't there? And now that she thought about it, she thought she'd heard the same name in Kraw a few weeks ago. Something about an...

"Dante's abyss!"

"Hey, hey, keep your voice down, we are Legally distinct, and until I find out how the case is doing, we are going to keep as quiet as possible. to protect our legal distinction!" The creature whispered. "Come on, man!"

Weiss looked hard at the messenger. "give me one good reason why I should go!"

Straightening their glasses, the creature's eyes seemed to briefly lose color, turning a stone grey. "I can give you that, Weiss. It's traveller, by the way.

Traveller placed both their arms at their sides in an exagerrated shrug, as they continued. "You going is the only moral option, in your condition. You know damn well you're weeks from snapping, and given how many things have failed to stop you already, do you really think your rampage is going to be checked after just... oh, say, one or two deaths? Nah, you're liable to go on a rampage."

A frog formed in Weiss's throat, as she opened her mouth to hotly disagree, but words didn't find their way to her mouth. She didn't have an argument. Not one that immediately came to mind, at least.

"So, let's say you join, meanwhile. If you win, you've done the proper thing in fighting your way through. you've caused a total of only one more death, since all these losers signing up to die know what they're getting into anyways. Plus, all of them were clearly capable of killing a bunch of people, so you're not exactly doing the universe a disservice..."

Weiss bit her tongue at that to let the guy finish, knowing damn well that joining would put her on the same list.

"...And in the end? Either you've cured your incredibly dangerous, not to mention contagious, condition..."

The Traveller shrugged. "Or you're dead. and either way, you don't have to worry about hurting anyone. So, that in mind, what's it gonna be, ice queen?"

Weiss raised an eyebrow. "...Everyone's there of their own will?"

"Far as I know, at least."

"And this boss of yours can heal my... condition?"

"Well, if he can't, I'm sure he wouldn't be stupid enough to piss you off, given your... accolades, little miss swordsalot."

Weiss gave a deep sigh at the remark, not even reacting. She looked down to myrtenaster, as though questioning her travelling companion on what to do next.

"...I'm going to regret this."
 

Mad Maggie

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I was camped outside the walls of New Abraxas, trying to figure out how hest to reenter the settlement without the large group I'd left with. Surely there would be questions. Uncomfortable questions. A frontal assault was a fool's errand, and spying on the convoy going in from a plateau only confirmed it. They were searching each cargo hold thoroughly for illegal trophies or live specimens.

Perhaps I could signal a drop ship at a nearby clearing and get off planet before the disappearance of the research team and my "fortunate" survival became apparent. I crept back into the brush to sleep on it and devise a solution, but the sagging remains of the gas traps I'd set to guard camp from intruders told me I'd been discovered.

Apparently by someone who had no situational awareness, as they were crouched by a flat metallic disk set up on the ground. Fiddling with it, they folded a device back into the pocket of an expertly cut suit jacket. Standing, a youthful face regarded me with yellow eyes from a hooded cape. "Dr Nox! I was wondering when you'd join me."

I tensed and drew my weapon without thinking. No, no, no. No one here knew that name or should know that name. "It's Caustic." I spat, advancing forward and keeping the androgynously perfect model at gunpoint. "If you're herebto get in the way, the Prowlers always need feeding."

That got a laugh. A musical lilting giggle as they gestured grandly towards me. "Oh no, quite the opposite . We loved your work out there in the wilds. Ruthless. Those poor kids, etcetera." Pointing at the jungle. "We're here to offer you a job."

I fired the heavy pistol, but the agent crackled with energy as a shield flared to life, rendering the bullets useless as they dropped to the dirt. "No. And your employers will never know you found me." I snarled, rushing forward to crush their skull with a punch. Before I could even process it, they had moved faster than my eye could track and I was flat in my posterior. The ground below me was cold and metallic, and I realized my error as the air tasted of tinfoil.

"On the contrary, Doctor!" They bowed mockingly, producing a remote and clicking a button. "Everyone will!"

A sharp crackle of energy and I felt my stomach lurch with the familiar sensation of extradimensional transport.
 

Rebecca Chambers

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Daylight fluctuated in mirage-like waves of prismatic silver, the rancid smell of blood thick in the air. Bruised and battered bodies lay scattered across the desert sand, strewn amid the rusted wrecks of ancient automobiles like dead leaves blown down by the wind, gore and splattered brains cooking in the hot midday sun.

A pack of feral dogs nosed around the dead, a few snarling and scrapping over choice cuts of meat. Others lounged in the shade of a nearby shack, seeking a reprieve from the harsh sunlight wherever they could find it.

The sign hanging from the shack’s roof whined sharply as the wind gave it a good jostle, promises of fueling and good spirits painted across it in sloppy lettering. The shack itself was squarish, a wreck of splintered wood and exposed metal pipes that had been arranged into something vaguely building-shaped, the windows caked with so much dirt it almost looked like a second set of curtains.

An old woman sat in a rocker on the porch, dozing lightly, disinterested in the dead bandits scattered around her makeshift junkyard. Black eyes squinted out from her craggy face, her long skirt and wide-brimmed hat sheltering her leathery and sun-cracked skin from the elements. A loaded shotgun sat propped against her knee, a scruffy little yapper dog snoozing at her feet.

Abruptly, one of the feral dogs let loose with a loud boof! The old woman’s eyes snapped open, fixing on a point in the distance— narrowing at the sight of a figure approaching on the horizon. Their silhouette cut a fierce shape against the blazing cyan sky, the remnants of a sandstorm gusting around them. She could not see much of her visitor from this distance, only that they were dressed in a rumpled-looking hat and poncho, the loose fabric swirling around them as they crested the slope of a distant sand dune.

The woman waited, gnarled fingers tightening around her gun and mouth set in a grim sneer. It was only when the squeaking of articulated mechanical legs reached her ears, accompanied by the sound of heavy metal tromping over coarse desert sand, that she loosened her grip, a flicker of recognition sparking in her dark eyes.

She clambered to her feet, moving to lean against the porch railing, the little dog scrambling out of the way of her fluffy petticoat with a yelp. She watched with keen interest as her visitor drew closer, her pinched frown only seeming to deepen as they drew ever closer to the outpost’s front step.

“Howdy, friend! I have returned, just as promised!” Pathfinder greeted, his single orange optic seeming to fairly glow with pleasure as he trotted right up the outpost’s steps to meet her. The old wood creaked and groaned alarmingly under his weight, threatening to splinter; the little dog scampered to safety on the opposite side of the porch, leaving his owner to deal with the towering bot.

The woman observed all this with an air of long-suffering, the wrinkles lining her face seeming to deepen with her increasing disapproval. She crossed her arms over her chest, peering down her nose at the MRVN’s cobalt blue frame, letting him stew in silence for a moment as she looked him over.

Her gaze paused on his hands, taking in the sight of articulated fingers flecked with gore and gritty sand. The sour look on her face increased in dourness when she noted that they were, yet again, disappointingly empty.

Finally, the old woman looked up. She met her hired hand’s placid, one-eyed gaze with a fierce squint, hands planted firmly on her hips. “Well, did you manage to find it? Don’t tell me I sent you out there for sixteen days only for you to come crawling back here empty-handed.”

“Yes ma’am!” Pathfinder sat up a little straighter, joints creaking audibly as he did so. “I have it right here. Would you like to see?”

Yes,” said the woman, exasperated, but the sudden glint in her eyes betrayed her interest. “Hand it over.”

Pathfinder turned with his back to her, fiddling with something. The woman’s eyes narrowed as she craned her neck to see whatever he was doing, but by then the bot had twisted back around to face her, his hands clasped in a protective curve around something deceptively small.

Ever impatient, the woman reached out, her gnarled fingers tapping lightly at Pathfinder’s curled metal digits. Slowly but surely, the robot’s finger’s pulled away one by one— revealing a soft pink cactus blossom, the delicate petals unfurling in a gentle plume as the sunlight cast over them.

Despite the effort he’d gone to to retrieve the flower (several weeks of wandering and bloody skirmishes!), the robot easily relinquished it when the woman’s fingers stretched out, hesitant, as if she could scarcely believe it existed.

“Oh,” the old woman breathed, seemingly overcome. She blinked back tears from her eyes, one hand fumbling to cover her mouth, as the blossom settled into the palm of her hand. “I didn’t think you’d actually find it.”

“It was a little hard,” admitted Pathfinder, his ordinarily exuberant vocalizer sounding a bit sheepish. “Do you think this will help with Waylon’s pain, Miss Belle?”

The old woman, Belle, nodded fervently. She swept a hand over her eyes quickly, wiping away the tears, and a rare smile twisted on her lips. “Yes. I know it will.”

For a moment the pair stood in perfect silence, the only sound being Pathfinder’s systems humming faintly with suppressed joy. A creak from inside the building at their backs seemed to snap Belle out of it, though, and she quickly recalled herself, the open look on her face hardening into something stonier, more closed-off.

She cleared her throat, tipping her head back to look Pathfinder in the eye. “That reminds me… someone came looking for you. Don’t know who they are, but Waylon’s pouring them a drink inside. They seemed to know you pretty well, though. Been waiting about thirty minutes now, they have.”

Pathfinder brightened. His optic whirred as it focused on the door, flickering with interest. “Who could that be? I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone here.”

“I see. You think they’re dangerous?” asked Belle, giving her shotgun a speculative look. She paused, however, when Pathfinder held out a staying hand.

“It’s okay, friend! I can handle this on my own.”

Belle raised a single eyebrow, disbelieving. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” Pathfinder said with certainty, already heading for the door. “This might even be fun!”

The old woman hmmm-ed at the MRVN’s retreating back, but didn’t move to follow him. She had… some faith in his abilities. Instead, she sank back down into her rocker, the old chair giving a protesting creak. “Alrighty then, suit yourself. Just… one more thing?”

Pathfinder turned back with a whir of his stabilizing servos, head tilted in confusion.

Belle’s mouth twitched in amusement, though the emotion was scarcely detectable around her usual glower. “Remind me why you’re dressed in that foolish cowboy getup again?”

The MRVN perked up, nearly incandescent with simple happiness at the question.

“I’m dressing for success,” Pathfinder informed her cheerfully, bending down to duck inside the shack’s doorway. “You’re looking at the next Dante’s Abyss champion!”

*​

Upon entering the ramshackle house, Pathfinder immediately identified who Belle had said was looking for him. They were seated at the little kitchen table that Belle and Waylon used for their morning and afternoon meals, a somewhat dusty glass of cola placed before them on the table. On the opposite side of the room sat Waylon, a grimace of apparent discomfort on his face as he pretended to read an old auto repair catalog.

And Pathfinder could definitely see why! Instead of a normal uncovered face, his visitor appeared to be wearing a funny porcelain mask. Only the faintest glimpse of their eyes was visible through the narrow, crescent-shaped slits, an unsettling smile pulling the curves of the mask’s cheeks upward. What’s more, they were dressed to the nines— a pretty stark contrast to Waylon and Belle’s musty home!

Still, Waylon was pretty burly, even if he was getting up there in age. It was only his illness that kept him back, really—even now Pathfinder could see the fine lines of pain creasing his face—and Pathfinder had no doubt that he would have defended himself quite well against this diminutive stranger if he really wanted to. Thus, Pathfinder could only infer that it was the mask’s creepy vibes that kept the man distanced to the other side of the room.

This reasoning only became more plausible when Waylon finally noticed Pathfinder’s entrance. The brown-skinned man visibly relaxed, a relieved sigh puffing out of his chest, and rose to his feet. He made to shuffle past Pathfinder to go join Belle, only pausing a moment to clap the towering MRVN on the shoulder.

Good luck,” Waylon muttered with feeling, then promptly skedaddled out the door. Pathfinder gave him a friendly wave as he passed, then turned back around to face his masked visitor.

“Hi there! My friends said you wanted to speak with me,” said the MRVN, stepping closer to the table and discarding his poncho over the chair’s back, exposing the glowing screen mounted on his chest. He (very briefly) contemplated sitting, but instead settled for crouching a bit and emanating his friendliest energy. He didn’t want to break the chair, after all!

“Yes, that is true,” the masked stranger said. Their voice sounded soft and pleasant, almost musical. “You’re a hard bot to pin down, Mr. Pathfinder. You’ve been wandering around the Crossroads for a long time, haven’t you? Searching for something, correct?”

Pathfinder tilted his head to the side, the cowboy hat he wore skewing wildly around his metal crown. “I have! I’m looking for my creator. You… wouldn’t happen to know anything about them, would you?”

“Potentially,” said the stranger, smoothing a hand down the front of their impeccably primped suit jacket, and Pathfinder’s interest increased a thousandfold. “But it’ll come at a price, one that I have no doubt you’ll be willing to pay due to your... history.”

“My history?” Pathfinder asked, several question marks flashing across his chest screen. He wondered exactly what they knew about him, considering that he only knew a little bit himself.

The masked stranger looked at him, what the MRVN could see of their eyes sparkling through their mask. “I’m referring to, of course, your involvement in the Apex Games. You have quite the track record, don’t you? You’re a winner, a team player… and a nearly perfect killing machine.”

“Thanks! I try very hard to win,” Pathfinder said, a cheery yellow smile reappearing on his chest screen. “Or, tried. Tried to win.”

“Do you ever miss it?” they asked, leaning forward, peering intently into his face. “Do you miss the rush? The teamwork? The killing?

The MRVN considered this question very seriously. “Hmm… well, it was fun to win. And I sure do like using my grapple!”

Somehow, the eternal grin of the stranger’s mask seemed to stretch even wider. “Excellent. Well then, Mr. Pathfinder, how would you like to enter a similar competition? Something my colleagues and I like to call… the Death Game.”

“The Death Game?” asked Pathfinder, hands clasped together in excitement. A heart-eyed emoticon flashed on his glowing chest screen, pink hearts fluttering across it.

The masked stranger chuckled. “You’re interested, I take it?”

“I am!”

“Good. Good,” they stood from the chair, leaving the dusty glass of cola untouched. “We’ll have to travel to Karim, then. We can finalize your registration with the Carnivale there and—”

“Sure, friend!” Pathfinder cut in immediately, marching out the door with a spring in his step. “But I need to say goodbye first!”

The well-dressed stranger paused, seeming oddly ruffled by the interruption. They stood inside the empty house, quaking in silent rage amid the dust and clutter. How dare that insufferably cheerful little…?

Finally (and after giving themselves a light shake), they followed behind, gloved hands clenched into tight fists.

*​

“So, it’s Pathfinder, right?”

“That’s right! I’m very excited to be here.”

“Good, that’s good. Well, what are you all about, Pathfinder? What do you have that sets you apart from the other contestants?”

“That’s a good question, friend! I would say that I’m pretty good at not dying, though the other fighters in this competition should feel free to prove me wrong! I also have my grapple, which lets me get to hard-to-reach places. Wait there, I’ll show you—”

“Oh, that’s really alright, you don’t have to—”

“Watch THIS, friend!”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“See, very cool! Right, friend?”

“... yes, of course! I… I think we’ve finished the interview, thank you.”
 

Kefka Palazzo

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He was prepared to throw any available resource he had at finding his sister, and he didn’t care whether he lived or died.

He was the perfect candidate for the carnival.

Carnivale.

Whatever.

They told him winning might help him on his way.

They told him he’d probably have to kill if he’d any hope of winning.

Magus was used to having to kill in order to win. He had blood on his hands in nearly every time period.

That was an uncomfortable thought – his sins stretched over 12,000 years. He wondered how many people could say the same.

He sat just inside the threshold of the event, having already breezed through the tedium that was signups. At least this time he consciously joined the death competition.

Killing for sport. For someone else’s entertainment. He was a literal pawn in a game whose objective was murder. For the second time.

He sighed. Obviously, he was making poor life choices.

Anything for Schala.

It was his mantra. Burned into his mind over constant repetition through each of the many time periods and realities he had traveled in search of his sister. Though he’d been dragged into another reality for the second time now, he refused to acknowledge how long his odds of finding her must have been.

He’d keep looking. Searching. Seeking. It’s what he did.

And if killing a few thrill-seekers might endow him with the resources to keep looking, then he’d do it with grim dispatch; to hell with the entertainment value.

He turned the big green rolled leaf in his fingers, taking a puff from his big, artisanal joint. A new habit he’d picked up not that long ago; he enjoyed the feeling of creeping frost sizzling up his temples and into his brain, easing his worry, if but for a moment.

The clouds of smoke were pleasantly unpleasant, too. All the better for keeping away idle chit-chatters.

He was less than impressed so far, and really would prefer to keep to himself. They wanted to call him The Dark Mage. He rolled his eyes just recalling the thought before taking another puff of his smoke.

He supposed he should retain a clear head. But then… the talent he’d heard of so far were all… fighters and other riff-raff.

He took a long drag. Then another. Then he coughed a hacking, whooping cough, tears stinging his eyes and mucous dribbling from his nose.

Magus caught his breath and cast a quick look around to make sure nobody saw him, and then took another puff.
 

Masahir N'air

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“Martzel Hróðgeirr Arbore? Did I spell that right?” A lanky young man glanced up to the signee, a tall, stocky man covered in tattoos. His head was shaved clean, bald down to his olive-toned scalp, and his face was pockmarked, covered in scars and scrapes from previous tussles. The dirty, rust tinged light of this shithole dive bar’s back room somehow still managed to glimmer when it struck his thin gold septum ring. The stubborn man’s wiry forearms folded over each other as he gave a huff and a roll of his eyes.

“Yes, yes. Hróðgeirr, with two r’s and an accent mark on the o, Arbore with an e... How much longer is this going to take?” His voice was rough, like he gargled nails with his orange juice and hard liquor every morning before wiping out an entire pack of cigarettes.

“Just a few more questions. Please be patient, this process is important.” The young man pushed a lock of light brown hair out of his face with the butt of his pen. ‘Marty’ scoffed and once again, for what felt like the millionth time since sign-ups opened, the young man rolled his eyes. What a bullish, ornery man Martzel was, an unsurprising and uninspired choice of contestant all things considered. Thugs and sociopaths from all walks of life tended to flock to events like these. He couldn’t wait to see them all scrap for prizes and bragging rights like the rabid, feral mutts they were.

“Firstly, what is it about yourself that makes you believe you’ll be an interesting and entertaining participant?”

Martzel snorted, his arms finally uncrossing to gesture all around him, as if the mere question was a challenge to his pride. “Me? What makes me a good contestant? I’ve lived my whole life as a hitman for criminal syndicates all over this god-forsaken dust bowl of a planet. You want bloodsport?” He tapped the table in front of himself with a few forceful jabs, “you want to see a man flayed twelve ways from Sunday? I’m more than capable of that.”

The staff member nodded, his pen scratching it’s ink into the page with a sharp precision as he noted Mart’s response. “You are aware that during this event you are likely to be beaten, battered, maimed and grievously mangled, that you are more than likely to suffer and die a merciless death for the sake of entertainment?”

A smirk crossed the thug’s grizzled, thin lips. “Where’s the fun if there’s no risk? I’m the best hitman this planet has to offer. I’d like to see them try to-”

The lights flickered chaotically, deep shadows wavering in the recesses of the quiet little room. The young man cocked an eyebrow but did not seem overly concerned. “God-forsaken dust bowl seems apt.” His bemused response was followed by a soft chuckle of agreement.

“Like I said, I’d love to see them tr-”

Behind Mart’s stocky frame a shadow coalesced, the glint of red stained metal was caught in the dingy yellow light for little more than a split second. The warped simulacrum grabbed Arbore by the shoulder, the cold steel of its digits was the bone chilling vice grip of the grave. For only the briefest of moments surprise and panic flashed across Martzel’s face, on beat to the methodical whirring chime of the hitman’s lethal fingers snapping into place. His scream was smothered prematurely as he sputtered and choked on his own coppery blood. His gagging was only punctuated by the brutal crunching of bones as they crumpled before the unforgiving mechanical spearhead. Burnished fingers erupted from the front of the man’s chest, sending minute clumps of gore spraying across the table and ground in terrible sanguine strings.

Revenant refused to call any of these noises a symphony. That was something that pretentious ‘Doctor Caustic’ did in order to fluff up the importance of his deeds. The nightmarish hitman liked to think he wasn’t as deluded as that petulant skinsuit, no no, he wasn’t deluded into thinking that his cold blooded murders had some higher purpose, some ultimate pleasurable reason outside of the simple fact that he was programmed to kill and he enjoyed every single second of it.

Honestly he was far more curious and amused by the fact that the interviewer hadn’t begun screaming for help... nor was this slinky individual posed in a state of shock by the spray of hot crimson blood running down his fine face; instead the only expression that made its home there was a pleased excitement, a certain gleam in his uncanny green eyes that jumped with anticipation at this newly unfolding possibility.

The nightmare shifted, pulling his hand back quickly to unsheathe it from the wannabe’s soon-to-be corpse, its glowing yellow eyes piercing the interviewer with an intense interest. Martzel hit the floor with a dull thud, his body still spasming and heaving as the final vestiges of his life withdrew into the void. The cocksure thug was nothing more than trash thrown to the curb as Revenant stepped over the pathetic skinsuit, and leaned down to leer at the young man holding the clipboard.

His deep voice rumbled with a strange, frigidly robotic smoothness. “Looks like this skinsuit wasn’t worth your time. Tell me more about your little Death Game.”
 

Beatrix III

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The ticking of the clock inside the interview room echoed to the blonde event planner that kept checking her expensive watch. Her next appointment was late. Wraith peered about the room from within the void. She had been told about an event to end all events and they send some suit to recruit her? Her skills were worth more than that. With a sigh she phased through the door to the interview room and exited the void. The woman jumped in her chair as the black-haired woman stepped out of a purplish black hole. As the portal to the void collapsed in on itself a crackle of lightning flowed over her left fist. Pulling down the mask on her face revealed her scowling face.

“You’re the representative for the event?” Wraith spat.

“Yes. I take it you must be Wraith. Your file is quite extensive.” The blond woman replied.

“Better be. Put in a lot of hours to achieve those results.” The void specialist said.

“So, what can you do for us? How are you marketable?”

Wraith met the eyes of the woman interviewing her.

“I’ll kill everyone and look good doing it. I will win. Nothing phases me.”

“Good enough for me.”

The woman finished writing whatever it was she was writing on her clipboard and tore off a red voucher.

“Take this through to the next room and present it to the attendant.”

The void specialist eyed the piece of a paper for a second before taking it in her gloved hand and proceeding through the next door, the same void energy as before letting her walk through. Presenting the voucher to the attendant she was ushered through to a teleporter that immediately sent her to the staging area.
 

Demetri Malius

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Flashing lights and cameras filled the area around Mirage as he entered the room. His hair bounced as he wavered back and forth with his swaggering walk, attempting to nonchalantly announce his presence.

"Oh yeah, Mirage here. Don't worry, there is enough of me to go around! Because, ha you know..." He gave a wink and smiled with each pose.

"Mirage, though nobody here has heard of you, what brings you to the death games today? A hunger to kill? An act of revenge? Showmanship?" Reporters shoved mics into the path of the legend, hoping to get an answer.

"I don't know about any of that, I'm just here for a good time? Nothing like hanging out and drinking with the ladi- wait did you just say death games?"

"Yes, the death games, is that not why you are here?" A reporter seemed confused and eager to hear a response.

"Uh.. yeah of course! The death games! The games that end in death! Lots of fancy shooting and everything... what are these death games again?" Mirage tried to play off his ignorance. He could have sworn this was the place that the dating site he set up his profile for told him to crash at.

"The death games of Carnivale Rosa! Battle and Glory! A theatrical display of entertainment! And of course, prizes for the winners!"

Mirage teetered back and forth for a moment. Sounded just like the Apex games, maybe some sort of knockoff. A knockoff he could win. He came here looking for ladies but now he might get ladies AND prizes. Maybe even come back in time for a pork chop dinner.

"Well get ready ladies and gents, you are already looking at your champion. Hopefully, nobody notices I don't know what I'm doing!" He announced with his fingers rested on his chin.

"You don't?"

"Did I say that out loud?"
 

Fennec Shand

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Stretch. Easy does it.

Izuku Midoriya grasped the physical therapist’s hand as tightly as his weakened muscles would allow, then lunged. He moved forward ever so slightly, pain surging from the balls of his feet up through his legs and hips. His other arm still hung limply in front of him, completely broken and supported by a mint-green sling that suited his aesthetic all too well.

He’d never been much of a style boy, but he knew enough about fashion to know that having a signature was a good thing. Just over the doc’s shoulder, out the window of this therapy room, he saw a group of red-suited folks hop out of a similarly crimson van. Immediately, he pinpointed them as people from this new Carnivale Rosa thing popping up around town. He didn’t know what they were about, but they had a brand and they stuck to it — if he was going to learn be a symbol everyone in Arcadia could look up to one day, he knew being recognizable was an important element. Not quite as important as the actual saving people part, of course, but being able to inspire hope — or whatever, he supposed — with just a look was nevertheless essential.

He already knew his signature, too: between his dark green hair messily shifting this way or that and his emerald eyes sparkling with hope even in the face of great adversity, midori was, well, his thing. Hell, it was even in his name.

Green Valley, he thought. Images of Kenji flashed before his eyes and he pushed forward harder.

“Woah!” he yelped as his front leg gave beneath him. He toppled forward, the physical therapist side-stepping and allowing him to crumple to the ground. He lay there trembling for a few moments before the doctor’s tinny voice reached his ears.

“You can’t push yourself too far, Izuku,” the therapist scolded him. “If you ever want to get better naturally, then you have to learn to read your body. You have to learn its limits, boy.”

Deku scowled. That much, he knew. When he’d decided to try and heal his busted limbs naturally after the Heroes for Hire’s run-in with Rooster Cockburn, he’d known it wasn’t going to be easy. There’d been simpler options, of course; he didn’t have access to Recovery Girl anymore, but the Arcadian hospital had white mages and healers galore that could’ve used magic to whip him back into shape for a price. With their earnings from the pet-napping case, Izuku probably could have managed to cover the bill and heal himself up rather quickly, but he’d decided against it. Not only because he knew his business partner wanted to use the funds to buy a mansion; also because he knew having to recover like any old Joe would come with valuable lessons, and humility to boot. Both were essential on his journey to become the greatest hero the Crossroads had ever seen.

“I’d say you’re about done for the day,” the doctor surmised as Deku struggled to push himself back up.

“No,” he protested, “I can… do more…”

“You’re done,” the therapist decreed, coldly. “Hit the sauna. Relax your muscles, Izuku. Don’t push yourself too far.”

As he allowed the therapist to help him back up, Izuku idly realized the man sounded a lot like Kacchan had, back when the green-haired boy had first shirked the idea of a quick trip to the healer. Despite the fact that his explosive business partner knew the money required for that could be used for his dream mansion, he’d encouraged Deku to heal up quick, so they could get back to work. It was the first time Katsuki Bakugo had ever expressed anything resembling care for the smaller boy’s well-being.

This shift, however small, had brought Midoriya a lot of comfort as he’d recovered, and he smiled at the thought as he made his way from the therapy room to the hospital’s sauna, where he’d get his aching muscles nice and relaxed. The ash blonde boy did care about him, somewhere in the deep recesses of his angry, violent, outrageously competitive brain. He chuckled a little bit as he remembered the note he’d found in their little apartment when he and Todoroki had returned from their midnight walk — about Bakugo having been swept off to some competition or other with those Carnivale Rosa people. It seemed a tad sketchy to the green-haired boy, but Izuku wasn’t about to try and tell Katsuki what to do — especially when he could already envision how much attention that was gonna bring to their little Heroes for Hire group. Undoubtedly that was what had convinced Kacchan, too.

Himself, on the other hand? In no condition to do something so insane. Insanity had always been Bakugo’s ballgame, anyway.

He stripped off his clothes and wrapped a towel around himself, immersing himself in the relaxing steam of the sauna. He took a seat, and for the first time in what felt like ages, breathed deeply. He could feel his pained shoulders loosen, his lips tremble beneath the unfamiliar steady flow of oxygen, broken up by copious anxiety ever since he and Kacchan had been expelled from UA. For a few minutes, despite the still heavily bruised leg and broken arm, Izuku Midoriya felt calmer than maybe he’d ever been. He felt at peace.

Knock, knock, knock.

He looked up.

Isn’t this a private sauna? the boy thought, securing his towel around himself and standing up. He cracked the door open just enough, expecting the doctor, perhaps, but finding two people dressed in those gaudy, red Carnivale Rosa outfits. He could feel his face scrunch up involuntarily as he stared at them — both lithe figures, one looking like a pink dragon person with a clipboard in one hand and the other hand behind his back, and the other just a regular blonde girl with dark skin and too much makeup on.

“Uh, hi,” he started, “can I help you?”

“Izuku Midoriya,” the pink dragon boy narrowed his eyes, glancing down at the clipboard and then back up at his target, “you’re very, very late arriving to the party, young man.” The dragon boy’s face furrowed a bit as he noticed Deku’s lack of dress and the general purpleish-blue state of most of his limbs, and he glanced at his associate. “Did the boss mention we’d be picking up this contestant so unprepared?”

“I guess that’s why he sent me with this,” the girl shrugged, holding up a syringe full of some strange, glowing, red liquid. Izuku went pale at the mere sight of it — fuck, he hated needles.

“Contestant?” he repeated, quickly turning his gaze from the needle to the pink dragon person. “I think there’s been a mix-up. You must be looking for Kacchan.”

“Mr. Bakugo is already on site,” the dragon boy shook his head. “There’s no mistake. We’re here for you.”

“But I—”

Whack!

Izuku didn’t see the weapon that swung out and slammed into his skull, but whatever it was, it was blunt and it hit hard. He crumpled to the floor, splayed out across the tile, barely hanging on to consciousness.

“Well, go on, then. Inject him,” the dragon boy said, and the girl quickly obliged, kneeling next to him and stabbing the shiny syringe into the back of his neck. “There. That should sedate him and get those wounds healed up and his body back to normal operation. He’d certainly be no fun if he entered the Death Game with so many busted up bones, eh?”

The would-be hero blinked. Death Game?!

One more thought passed through Deku’s head before he passed out:

Dammit, Kacchan. What the hell have you gotten me into?!
 
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