Death Game Season 3 -- Staging: Registration

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The Man in Red

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As always, a friendly reminder, make sure you've read all the rules before joining!

"And so...once again, it's time." The Man in Red chortled to himself as he gave the final go-ahead.

And almost immediately, across the Crossroads' worlds and stars, the agents and staff of the mysterious masked madman went into action. Unfurling and opening their hidden lairs and setting the stage for enlistment and access to the staging grounds of the Carnivale Rosa's newest festivities.

The scouts and recruiters leapt into action, dashing and squirreling themselves out and about across the worlds to track down promising candidates and bring them into the fold.

As always, their methods would be...less than completely friendly and above-board. But they would never lie about the risks, and make sure that everyone who joined was...prepared.

Further threads for the staging and pre-show will be up shortly.
 

Arthur Morgan

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Spirits of Vengeance
“Wake up!”

Coda grumbled incoherently from beneath the safety of her covers, the shout jarring her brain out from the foggy wanderings of a rather pleasant dream. Only the crown of her blonde head peeked out from the cushy fortress of pillows and blankets, the rest of her basking in the warmth of her bedsheets like a snake on a sun-warmed rock.

Not bothering to fully extricate herself from her soft, toasty cocoon of bliss, one hand slithered out from under the comforter, smacking ineffectively at a nearby alarm clock resting on the bedside table.

Yet again, the stern disembodied voice spoke up. “Ugh. You didn’t even set your alarm clock, you dummy. Don’t you remember?”

At that, Coda’s hand dropped onto the bedclothes with a heavy flumph, retreating back into her den. An aura of what could only be described as 'insufferable smugness' emanated from the lumpy pile of bedclothes piled atop her body.

Ohoho, so the alarm clock hadn’t gone off? Good. That meant there was no reason to get up. Clearly the disembodied voice speaking to her was the idiotic one...

"Get up, Coda," said the voice, suddenly much closer, perhaps hovering right at her bedside. “You’re going to be late!”

"Grrmmmgmgph." Coda groaned into her pillow, an incoherent and garbled noise that probably would not have sounded out of place coming from the zombified cast of Night of the Living Dead.

"Now isn’t the best time for poetry, Coda-bear. C'mon! Up and at 'em!”

Gritting her teeth, Coda grudgingly lifted her head a few scant inches from the marshmallow-soft cushion of fabric and down. She noted with some satisfaction that there was a perfect impression of her face pressed into the pillow.

“I said,” she enunciated, words clipped and painfully slow. “I’ll call in sick!”

"No dice, Coda. You’ve used up all your sick days already, remember?"

"Then I’ll call in DEAD!"

There was a heavy sigh and the sound of footsteps retreating from her bedside. For a single, blissful moment, Coda thought the annoying irritant had left—

"Sorry, kid. This is for your own good." And then Coda felt as, horror of horrors, the source of the voice grabbed onto the edge of her comforter and gave a sudden, terrible yank.

Coda shot bolt upright in bed with a yowl, hissing and spitting like a feral cat. She heaved in several harsh pants and turned to gape at her roommate— glaring daggers, arrows, bullets, harpoons, and anything else that could cause bodily harm at her. Her strangely reptilian eyes flashed a sinister orange-gold, blazing in the comfortable darkness of her bedroom.

“What,” she spat, the words tangling up with a sibilant hiss. “The hell, Aileen!”

But her roommate, Aileen, merely gazed right back at her with a nonplussed stare. Arms crossed firmly over her chest, it was clear that the older woman meant business.

“You gotta go in, Coda. Today’s the most important day of the year! It’s the first day of the season, you know we need all hands on deck. You’re late enough as it is, and you know the boss won’t stick up for you if you call in sick again.”

“Ugh,” Coda whined, slumping backwards. “I just… I don’t want to. It’s so, so… demeaning!”

Brow furrowing in confusion, Aileen's arms dropped from where they were crossed over her chest. “Aw, c’mon. I thought you loved this job? Where’s your enthusiasm from last season, huh?”

“It’s just, I’m— I’m not exactly personable, am I?”

“What?" Aileen asked, nonplussed. "Where’s this coming from?”

Coda groaned, rolling from side to side until she finally mustered up the energy to get out of bed. She quickly began her morning ritual, tugging and stretching the comforter into submission so that all of the wrinkles were smoothed out.

“Well, I just mean... people don’t really... like me," she explained, feeling spectacularly lame.

“Huh? I’m people, Coda. I like you!”

“You don’t count, Aileen," Coda sighed, fluffing her pillows. "You’re like, contractually obligated as my roommate to be my friend, or something.”

Aileen laughed, and the sound warmed Coda's heart even as she grumbled about being forced to go in for work. She set her jaw and continued making her bed, only for Aileen to suddenly put a firm hand on her shoulder.

“Coda, come on. Look at me,” the older woman said gruffly, with an unusual severity in her tone.

Sighing heavily, Coda did, albeit reluctantly. Meeting Aileen's eyes, the older woman gazed back at her gently, the slightest smile brimming on her lips.

“Coda, you're one of the coolest cats I know," Aileen said softly. "You’re funny and wicked smart and much better at this than you give yourself credit for— even if you don’t always show it! People might not always see it through that crumpy, frumpy exterior of yours... but trust me when I say it's there."

For a brief moment, Coda thought perhaps Aileen was right. Maybe she really was being too hard on herself. Thankfully, Aileen's voice broke into her thoughts yet again before she could get too existential about the compliment.

"Now, go brush your teeth! You should've been a Coda-shaped dust cloud, like, an hour ago."

Feeling both slightly embarrassed and oddly relieved, Coda finally obediently trudged towards the small bathroom attached to her dorm-like room. She grabbed her toothbrush and began to brush her teeth while the hot water filled up the sink. After a moment, she spat out the toothpaste foam into the drain, looking up at her reflection in the mirror.

Her already quite pale face seemed more drawn than usual in its clouded reflection, with dark, bruise-like circles under her eyes from lack of sleep. With a sigh, Coda fixed her hair into a neat single braid with practiced ease, yanking her locks every which way in the process.

Reaching for her jewelry basket on top of the bathroom counter, she plucked out two golden earrings from inside it before carefully attaching them to her earlobes, giving herself a small smile of satisfaction in the mirror when she was finished. It was always good to put your best foot (or in this case ear) forward.

Maybe today wouldn't be so difficult, after all.

-

Half an hour later, Coda found herself standing in the main hall. Naturally, she had dressed to impress, wearing a crisp white shirt tucked neatly into a black skirt, with a navy fabric tie around her neck and black patent leather shoes that clicked sharply against the glisteningly white marble floors as she walked.

She felt a sudden surge of confidence mixed with determination as she looked at the intricate architecture of the space—the soaring ceiling, soft velvet rug, and glimmering crystal chandeliers were all so grand in their scale and beauty that it almost made her feel small.

As she grew closer to the front desk, though, Coda could hear her boss's voice ringing throughout the room, his sharp words reverberating off the walls like an auctioneer's bellow. Even from a distance, she could see that the man was all in a tizzy, darting this way and that as he hastened to ready the space for any new arrivals.

Welp. You can’t gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss your way out of this one, Coda, she thought glumly. Time to face the music.

She sucked in a deep breath before advancing towards the front desk, steeling herself for whatever might come next.

Coda's usual manager was the type of guy who very badly needed an appointment with a massage therapist, or maybe a couple of those orthopedic pads placed in his shoes. In other words, he was an uptight asshole— and he probably felt mighty insecure about it, too, which was why he was so very insistent on making Coda's life an actual living hell. Case in point:

The second he spotted her standing in the hall, his lips curled into a sneer and his eyes practically gleamed with an unholy light. His purpose became clear as he cut through the crowd of other employees gathered at the front desk, stalking towards her like a predator closing in on its prey.

"Ah, Coda! Just the person I've been looking for," he called, striding towards her. Before she could even muster up a reply, he continued, "I need you to get over to Erde Nona and start recruiting, stat. Make sure you find the most interesting folks and don't leave a single stone unturned. Got it?"

Coda felt the world rapidly shrink, the polite smile that had half-formed on her face freezing in an awkward grimace. Huh?

"Er," she stuttered, quite elegantly, even as her heart felt like it was plummeting all the way down to her shoes. "What?"

He rolled his eyes at her, like she was the one being difficult, here.

"We're short-staffed," he explained, shrugging. "Besides, it's about time you did some more field work, isn't it?"

The young woman stared at him, mind reeling. Of course, it didn't take a genius to understand what was going on here. He felt threatened by her, and he wanted her to handle the recruitment because he needed her out of the way. Coda knew better than to buy into his excuses, though—they were a tiny bit short-staffed on recruitment so of course they needed help, but there was no reason why he had to send someone as valuable as Coda off on an errand like this. It very obviously wasn't about what was best for the Carnivale Rosa—it was about him wanting to put her in her place.

Although this realization hit her like a steel chair, Coda tried her best not to seem all that perturbed. The cogs in her mind spun furiously, though, desperately seeking an excuse, any excuse, no matter how outlandish or weird, to get her out of this excruciatingly dull task.

Then, suddenly, it hit her. Her facial expression brightened, a slow and devious smile appearing on her face as her eyes glinted with untapped mischief. She had the perfect idea.

"No need," said Coda breezily, raising a hand. "In fact... in fact, I've found the perfect recruit already."

Her manager glanced up from where he'd been reviewing something written on a clipboard, steadfastly ignoring her now that he'd 'removed the problem,' so to speak. He lifted one eyebrow. "Have you?"

Still smiling, Coda nodded. "Me."

He blinked at her. "You?"

"Yes," said Coda, drawing herself up with a certain air of self-importance that she knew would make him most uncomfortable. "I think, as an employee of this fine institution, that I am quite possibly suited to be the most interesting candidate of them all." She looked him steadily in the eye. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Never in her life had Coda seen a man look more flabbergasted. It was almost priceless. He stared at her for several long moments, as though utterly discombobulated, before seeming to at last manage to find his voice again.

"U-uh. Well... that is to say, I suppose..." he stammered, clearly at a loss.

Sighing softly through her nose, Coda decided to take pity on him. "I think I'm the best fit, don't you?"

After a pause, he nodded mutely, his expression looking somewhat like he'd just sucked on a lemon.

Coda smiled, victorious.

"Great. It's settled, then. I'll just get started on recording my video interview, then, if that's alright with you?"

Still in a bit of a stupor, her manager merely gestured vaguely towards the office where they held such things and watched as Coda strode off, the high gloss of her shoes gleaming in the artificial light. It was only when Coda turned the corner into the office that she allowed herself to relax— and truly contemplate just what she'd managed to get herself into.

The room was smaller than she'd anticipated; the walls seemed to close in around her, and for a moment Coda felt as though she was on the verge of a mini panic attack. The four soft chairs clustered in the center of the makeshift recording space were inviting enough, but the large video camera set up on one side made her hands shake.

There was no way out of this, though. She had to go through with it now or risk making a fool out of herself in front of her manager. And that would be, quite simply, unacceptable.

Gritting her teeth, Coda marched over to the camera and fiddled around with it until she figured out how to switch it on. She adjusted its height and angle, tweaked the lighting, and thoroughly tested all of its settings before finally deeming it ready for action. Even then, she still stared at it warily for several moments more before finally settling down into one of the chairs.

It was only then that Coda realized just how daunting this task truly was— but really, there was no turning back now. Not anymore.

Taking a deep breath and fixing an expression of perfect serenity upon her face, Coda looked directly into the lens and said: "Hi! My name is Coda Nitai, and I'm here to participate in this year's Death Game!"

She paused to shoot the camera a pair of double peace signs, an almost manic grin of delight on her face.

"Let's all do our best, okay?!"
 

Zayin

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Recruiter 48 scowled to herself as she hiked through the Erde Nonan hinterlands, in search of the mark that her boss had given her. It wasn’t exactly difficult work, especially compared to some of the nonsense she had been forced to deal with in the past, but it was certainly tedious. The recruiter would have taken a sprint through an active warzone any day of the week. Unfortunately, though, that mission had been given to someone else, leaving 48 to march through the wilderness.

As she crested a hill and looked down at the scenery before her, she spotted her mark and hopped forward, sliding down the hill towards them with impeccable balance. At the base of the slope was a humanoid figure crouched over the remains of some misshapen beast, possibly unmade, though sometimes it was hard to tell in the Hinterlands. Six wings of light stretched from the back of the stranger, not quite touching their body, while they held a gilded longsword in each hand. The left one was held in a reverse grip as they inspected the carcass, while the right one was stabbed into the ground, providing its wielder balance as they crouched down.

As the recruiter drew closer, the stranger perked up at the sound of dress shoes sliding against dirt and loose stones. Glancing behind them, 48 was met by a curious glance, an eyebrow raised above gleaming golden eyes.

“Zayin, I presume?” Recruiter 48 said as they slid to a halt before the false angel, quickly brushing down their suit before politely holding their arms behind their back. “The Twin Blades, the Angel of Challenge.”

“I guess you could call me that.” The swordsman shrugged, disarmingly casual as he rose from his crouch, blades lowered but not sheathed as he looked the stranger over. “Just Zayin is fine, though. I save the titles for my enemies.”

“Of course.” 48 agreed, clearing her throat. “Well, we at Carnivale Rosa would like to invite you to participate in this year’s Death Game. We would be honored to have an individual as… storied as yourself taking part in our game.”

The false angel looked the recruiter over skeptically, gently swinging his blades as he considered her words. Flecks of brackish blood dropped to the ground, leaving the holy swords unsullied as he shook them clean. “I can’t have been in this world more than a couple days and it seems you already know me well. Too well. You wanna explain yourself?”

The recruiter simply gave Zayin an enigmatic smile as she faced off with him, seemingly unconcerned despite the well-armed angel who was giving her suspicious looks.

“We have our ways.” She said simply. “Let’s just say that my boss is a man who does his research. How we found you is besides the point, though. You should be asking what we can offer you.”

The challenger seemed unimpressed by her deflection, but his curiosity was reluctantly piqued. He didn’t give her the pleasure of a full response, but a curt nod was enough for her to proceed.

“Carnivale Rosa provides many opportunities to its players. Fame and fortune are among them, of course, but I know your vice, ‘angel’.” 48 said, casually pacing around Zayin, her gaze fixed on her hands as she adjusted her gloves before slowly rising to meet that of her mark. “We can provide a good fight.”

“I think your boss might need to do a bit more research before inviting me to this Death Game.” The swordsman murmured with a touch of incredulousness as he hefted one of his longswords over his shoulder. “I’m not some bloodthirsty maniac. I like to fight, sure, but I kill villains, monsters, not just anyone who looks at me the wrong way.”

“Of course, of course.” The recruiter agreed. “I wouldn’t dare suggest otherwise. But, do consider, what kind of people do you think this type of competition will attract?”

Zayin considered her words carefully. While the stranger had a point, he wasn’t stupid. There was no way he’d be the only one that she was giving such a spiel to. And, worse, there was no way of knowing who would be truly wicked in this game and who would just be misguided. Still, the fact that there might be others tricked into participating was as much of a pro as a con. They could need protection, after all, and he could be the one to provide it.

“Still not convinced?” Recruiter 48 inquired. “Well, I can assure you that there will be some opponents that you will find quite interesting. Though I’m not sure of their exact identities yet, I’m confident that my boss will see to that.”

“...Tch.” Zayin clicked his tongue irritably, knowing full well that he was being suckered in and but was helpless to stop it. “Fine. As much as I had to admit it, you’ve got my interest. What now?”

“Perfect.” 48 said, reaching into the pocket of her suit jacket. “There’s some bureaucracy to get through, registration and such, you understand. But first we’ll need to do something about your… unique situation.”

“My situation?” The swordsman repeated suspiciously.

“Yes. The fact that you aren’t the angel, you’re the swords.” The recruiter said, fishing a small black cylinder out of her coat. “Outside weapons aren’t allowed in, you see, so we’ll have to sort that out.”

Before Zayin could even respond, the cylinder flashed with a blinking light and his whole body seized. The last thing he could see before everything went dark was the calm smile of 48 looming over him.

~~~~~~~~~

Zayin awoke with a start, jolting upright and almost slamming his head into a suited man standing over him. Had he possessed a reflex to breathe, he certainly would have gasped for air as he came to, glancing around the van.

“Welcome back to the land of the living.” Recruiter 32 grinned as he took a drag from an electronic cigarette, sliding his gloves back over his hands covered in arcane tattoos. “Can’t say I’ve ever worked on something like you before, but I think I did a damn good job.”

“A good job..? A good job of what?” Zayin croaked, groping for his swords and finding them missing. He felt weird, icky, and claustrophobic, like he had somehow been shoved into a tin can and pushed out the other end. “Where am I?”

“You’re in a van headed for the sign up center. We’ll get you to do a quick interview and then we’ll send you through to-“

“No, where am I?” The false angel grunted, struggling to put his distress into words. “My… my real body! The swords!”

“Oh, right.” 32 nodded nonchalantly. “We’ve reduced them to their spiritual components and sealed them into your body. Got your soul all nice and set in that weird, half-spirit form of yours.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Zayin thundered. “I should be able to summon them, then!”

“Yeah. You would be able to if it weren’t for that handy limiter collar - unaffiliated with any limiter collars put into use by events which may or may not bear resemblance to Death Game - that we’ve strapped to you.” The recruiter said, gesturing to the angel’s neck. At the mention, the hero realized that he did, indeed, have an unfamiliar weight around his neck. Gently reaching up, his fingers brushed against cold metal, confirming the recruiter’s claims. Abruptly, Zayin went to grab at the dollar in an attempt to tear it off, causing 32 to leap back in horror.

“Whoawhoawhoa, settle down!” He gasped. “You grab that thing and you’ll take out yourself and everyone else in this van! You don’t want to blow any innocents straight to heaven, right?”

“Innocents, hardly.” The false angel sighed before settling back down into the seat he had been provided. “This had better be worth it. How long until we get there?”

“We’re close.” 48 back called from the driver's seat. “Just hang tight and don’t blow us up until you’re about ten paces from the van, Ok?”

A few minutes of silence passed before they pulled into… somewhere. Zayin could hear the chatter of a crowd outside, but with no windows in the back of the van, there was little he could do but guess that they had arrived at the registration center. Moments later, his assumption was confirmed as 48 pulled over and 32 opened the rear doors, letting the living weapon into the outside world.

Stretching legs that he hadn’t even realized were falling asleep, Zayin stepped out of the van and, slightly aimless, followed the path of the crowds. He found himself funneled into the registration center, ushered into an interview room with a pair of enthusiastic employees.

“Hello!” They said in unison, flashing the false angel a pair of radiant smiles.

“Welcome to the Carnivale Rosa Erde Nona gathering area, we’re very excited to have you participating in this year’s Death Game.” The one on the left said, a cheerful looking freckled woman with ginger hair.

“We just need to ask you some questions and get some details. Just something to hype you up for the fans at home.” The one on the right followed up, a cheerful looking man who also possessed orange-red hair and a brushing of freckles. Zayin briefly wondered if the two were related as he gave a hesitant nod, unsure of exactly how people were watching from their homes but too out of his depth to ask something so minor.

“Of course. What would you like to know?”

“First, let’s get your name.”

“I’m Zayin.”

“Hrmm… just Zayin?” The woman asked, her smile dropping just a tad. “Any titles or anything?”

“Right...” He said. “I am Zayin, the Angel of Challenge, the Blades- Er, Blade of Justice.”

“Ooh, perfect.” The man grinned. “Love the whole aesthetic you’ve got going on. Now, tell us a little bit about yourself. Why do you fight? What do you bring to our little Death Game?”

“I was born from the hope and faith of mortals, and every battle I fight, I fight in their name. I am the protector of the innocent and destroyer of the wicked.” Zayin said, the glow in his eyes seeming to intensify as pride, determination and confidence spread across his features. “I will uphold heroism in the name of those who came before me and those who will come after.”

The two interviewers turned to one another, staring at each other for a few moments. After their apparent silent conversation, they turned back to the hero in unison, their picture-perfect grins returning.

“Perfect!” The man said.

“Go ahead and step through.” The woman followed up. “We hope you enjoy your time in the Death Game.”

Zayin couldn’t help but feel like the interview was a little short, but at their encouragement he stopped into the teleporter and disappeared in a blink.
 

Roy Mustang

probably plotting something
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Recruiter 13 was cackling again. 11 looked up from her own screen with a scowl.

“Can we focus, please 13? The boss wants these candidates sooner than later.”

“Sure sure sure… aww man, oh jeeze… there’s no way this is real…”

He couldn’t even pretend to be listening to her. 11 rolled her eyes and turned back to her search. If he kept slacking off like this she’d just blame him when they missed their quota.

“Holy hell, I think this might be legit… 11, c’mere, you’ve gotta take a look at this.”

11 scowled at the screen he presented to her, then blinked in surprise.

“How did you even find this?”

“Don’t you go underestimating the powers of the bad-luck Hack!” 13 smirked, looking a bit too pleased with himself. 11 sat back in her chair with a sigh.

“Man…you never know what you’re going to find when you start poking into these old-money Erde Nona families…” She shook her head, “So what, you blackmail as a side-hustle?”

“Nah man, you’re thinking too small.” 13 was still grinning like a hyena, “Look at their son.”

“Good Lord.”

“Right? That guy’s got ‘Death game entree’ written in gold on his chest! We’ve got the leverage. Make a few choice calls, I bet that he’ll walk right in the door!”

---

11 remembered the conversation, but now that it was actually happening, she wasn’t quite sure she could believe it. It was one thing to see the picture, quite another to be sitting across the room from such a mountain of a man. He sat straight backed, large hands resting on his knees, decked out in a Markovian military uniform. When 11 had looked into the guy she’d found that he had signed up to help the city’s peacekeeping division shortly after the Siege. Erde Nona had weathered the Unmaking well enough that some of their warriors had gone in search of… redder pastures? That analogy didn’t quite work, she was getting flustered. Oh, wait, he’d almost finished answering her question! 11 shook her head and refocused on the interview. They were nearly finished with the B-roll, then they could film the important questions.

“How has your Erde Nonan upbringing affected your time here in Cevanti? Do you find it difficult working on such a comparatively broken planet?”

“A most curious question!” The man’s deep baritone chuckled, “But an Alchemist such as myself recognizes the truth! You must be able to destroy in order to create, and create in order to destroy. The two concepts are interminably linked, and I must confess it was this that led me to work here.

11 frowned. The hell was he talking about?

“...Alright… well that’s the last part of the personal section for your promo spotlight, let’s real quick do a highlight of the big questions people will have for the rapid-fire introductions.”

The man nodded.

“But of course! We must properly encourage the viewership and enthusiasm of the venue!”

11 nodded along distractedly. Just don’t focus on the moustache, He’s got a mouth under there, surely… Be professional!

“Can you please state your name for the camera, give it some flair if you can?”

“Flair… eh?”

The man turned to face the auto-camera directly, his bald head shining in the stage lights as he raised a metal-clad fingerless glove in a clenched fist.

“Welcome, viewers to the Carnivale Rosa! I am Alex Louise Armstrong! The Strongarm Alchemist!”

Good enthusiasm at least… 11 nodded to herself.

“And what brings you to the death game this year?”

“Hrrm,” Armstrong stoked his chin as if in thought, but 11 was pretty sure he’d already planned a response for this question.

“Once the competition was brought to my awareness I was left with no other choice! This island shall be an exquisite arena for my demonstration!”

Armstong stood abruptly, looming several feet above them and causing the auto-camera bot to hurriedly readjust its focus. The hulking man flung his shirt into the air, displaying a set of muscles that would be the envy of any body-builder.

Arbiter above… 11 watched, dumbfounded… I could swear he is twinkling right now.

Armstrong’s eyes snapped open, muscles still bulging as he flexed. He locked onto the camera with a steel gaze.

“I shall show you all the Royalle-winning techniques that have been passed down the Armstrong family line for generations!”
 

Toga Voorhees

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My breathing was harsh and ragged, and my feet dragged across the slimy stones which made up this underground catacomb. Not for the first time did I curse the orders that had brought me to this place. It had seemed simple enough at the time. Just a routine grab and bag. We'd done it dozens of times before. There were always one or two contestants that the big guy wanted in his game, whether they wanted to participate or not.

But this… this was something else entirely. I had known something was wrong from the moment we'd removed the manhole cover and dropped down into the sewers beneath Arcadia. Nothing wholesome would choose to live down here. It was dark and cramped, and smelled terribly. But, orders were orders, so I pulled up my scarf, turned on my night vision goggles, and began our sweep of the tunnels.

We had been told that our target was dangerous, but weren't they all? With our skills and experience, Jeff had often bragged that we could even bag Ridley, that monstrous dragon that the old grams down in Uruk were already weaving into bedtime stories to scare their grandchildren into good behavior. But maybe that thought had made us complacent. We were expecting a frontal assault, or maybe an unaware target putting up a feeble, last-ditch effort to escape capture.

What we weren't expecting was to suddenly be missing Chuck. He had been taking up the rear of our column, keeping an eye on our six, in case something happened. And, well, it fucking did. I didn't even hear him go. No one did. He just… didn't answer when Jeff called for a status report. Even Joe, who had been right in front of him hadn't noticed when he had went missing.

Immediately, Jeff formed us up into a semi-circle, with our back to the wall. I watched the shadows nervously, wondering just what kind of Hell the Man in Red had ordered us into, while Jeff radioed back up to the surface from the center of our defensive line. Next thing I knew, Alex was falling.

This time, we all saw what was happening. A hand, green and slimy from the muck, had erupted from the flowing mixture of water and excrement in the middle of the tunnel. It had taken hold of his ankle and yanked horribly. Alex crashed to the floor, let out of muffled yelp through his scarf, and, before he or any of us could react, had disappeared into the waters which the hand dragged him into.

We hesitated a moment, shock and an unwillingness to accidentally harm our comrade staying our trigger fingers, but when the water began to run red, the spell was broken. The tunnel was bright with the flashes of our rifles as we poured round after round into the fetid fluid which had eaten our friend. I remember vaguely hearing Jeff call for a cease-fire, but it was nearly drowned out by the deafening sounds of gunfire.

We were blinded by the sudden light in this dark place, our night vision goggles becoming a hindrance rather than a help. I don't know if it was me or someone else whose aim slipped away from the water, but I know what finally brought our panicked firing to an end was the sudden cry of Connor as a ricocheted bullet took him in the upper thigh. Yeah… that definitely calmed us down quick.

As Jeff dragged the now-wounded Connor into the circle with him, we tightened our own defenses, though we made sure to give the actual water quite a wide berth. My nerves were on edge, and I jumped at every stray sound that came to my ears. The soft drip drip of water droplets falling upon wet stone. The gentle gurgle of flowing water within the trench. The low moans of Connor. But, it was what I didn't hear that got us.

I don't know whether it was our wild firing, or some design of our target, that caused the cave-in. Maybe it was a little of both. A single falling pebble was all the warning we had before the catastrophe, and then… the world came crashing down on top of us.

Fortunately, my scarf was enough to keep me from choking on the centuried dust that filled the tunnel. I lay sprawled upon the damp floor, a bit dazed from the sudden fall of stone that I lay just outside of. Looking back, I saw how the massive jumble of stone fills the space previously occupied by my friends. I also saw the blank-eyed stare of Connor, peeking through a small gap between two large boulders.

Biting back a yelp of pain, I rose to my feet. Fire scorched up my leg from my ankle, and I knew it was either broken, or horribly sprained. My rifle was missing, probably lost in the pile of rocks behind me. So we're my friends, and I prayed that they had gotten out of the way in better shape than I had. But, all of these were minor thoughts which passed through my mind. What dominated was simply… fear. Not a fear that I was alone, but a fear that I wasn't.

And so, that's why I'm here, dragging my beaten body along the tunnel. I don't even know where I'm going… or rather, I hope I'm heading towards a way out. Each step is tortuous as my ankle screams at me, but I keep going. Deep inside of my soul, a primal part refused to simply lay down and wait for death. It spurred me on, clinging desperately to a hopeless hope that survival lay just around the next bend.

But it wasn't survival that I found as I rounded that corner. In form, it could have been easily mistaken for a man. Tall and broad, but a man. It wore a dark-blue jumpsuit and a bright-white mask. But those eyes… there was nothing of a soul within them.

I had seen monsters before. Malice. Hate. Envy. Joy. Even the worst of them had something in them. Some reason or emotion that drove them to do the things they did. But, this… thing. It was empty. It killed, not for food, or for sport, or even for anger. It was death.

A hand clasped around my throat, the firm grip immediately depriving me of sweet, life-sustaining air. With almost comical ease, I was lifted from my feet as I clawed desperately at it. So, this was it? The end. It's funny how calm my thoughts were now, when only moments before panic had made them wild and disjointed.

Maybe that's why I was able to do it. It was always supposed to be a last-resort, and Jeff had often made fun of me for even packing it along. Dozens of successful missions, most without even so much as an injury, and I still wanted to pack along the dead-man vest? Guess the jokes on you, boss. If I could breath, I might have chuckled softly, but I guess a sardonic smirk will have to do.

Since I'm going to die anyway, might as well take this thing out with me. These are my last thoughts as consciousness fades away. At least I won't be awake for the explosion.

"Do… do you think he's dead?" My partner, Aiden, asked tremulously, rifle fixed upon the supine form in front of us. A light steam floated up from its body, and though a few small flames danced upon the jumpsuit it's wearing, it otherwise seemed unharmed.

We had followed after Kelsey as soon as we could get around the debris-choked passage, but it looked like we were too late. I couldn't help but to feel a bit of admiration for her, for doing something that I didn't even know I had the willpower to do myself. The loud boom of the explosion had been what told us where she was as myself, Aiden, and Joe had searched for our lost comrade. And, when we arrived… all we could find of her were a few mangled chunks of flesh strewn about the tunnel.

"I fucking hope not," I repliedirritably, though my hand shook as I reached into my pocket for my cigarettes. "The boss'll kill us if he is. Dunno why he's so set on bringing this guy in. Something about 'maintaining the brand image' or some bullshit like that."

I paused to light a cigarette, taking in a deep breath and letting the toxic vapors calm my frazzled nerves. I had come down here with a full team of seven. Now, I had only three left, myself included. One man… no. One thing had killed over half a team of trained mercenaries, and with nothing more than its own bare hands.

"I wonder if Jak's people have to deal with this kinda shit too…" I mused softly to myself, staring up at the ceiling as my cigarette smoke rose to mingle with the noxious fumes of the sewer and the airborne aftermath of the explosion. Maybe it was time to look into a career change.

"Box him up," I finally said, barking out the order to the few remaining men under my command. "Dead or alive, we're bringing him in. We owe it to Chuck. And Alex. … and Kelsey," I finished, the last spoken nearly under my breath.

Perhaps in spite of everything they had experienced, and the loss of their friends, Aiden and Joe (the last survivors of this massacre) got to work with an efficiency that spoke well of their professionalism. But never before had they ever been this quiet at the end of a successful mission.

Arbiters damn you, Man in Red.
 

Shinku

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The faint light of the full moon peered upon Shinku, as he looked down on Arcadia from atop Suvaro Inn. The tranquil and picturesque view of the grand city at night was something the assassin of shadows couldn't dare to miss every night. Though the view was ever comforting, a sensation of weariness still lingered at the back of his mind. A plethora of thoughts continued to race through his mind, from worries of the unmaking, to his comrades back in Dante's Abyss, to his personal vendetta that remained unfulfilled. As his thoughts rolled in endless torment, a gust of chilling wind suddenly caressed his face.

"Are you strong enough, you might be wondering," uttered a sudden voice from behind which forced Shinku to quickly grip the hilt of his sword and whip around. He couldn't sense any presence near him but he couldn't deny the figure of a man standing a distance right in front of him. It is impossible to make out the person's face in the darkness, but from his silhouette, Shinku could tell that he was male. Moreover, his voice and the choice of an elegant black suit gave it away. "Oh and be at ease. I have no intention of harming anyone," the man spoke again, taking a step forward into the moonlight.

"And who might you be?," Shinku probed with deadly seriousness, his hand still tightly gripping his sword. He held his ground, boring his icy gaze into the mysterious stranger whose features were finally revealed under the faint light of the full moon.

"Of course, where are my manners? Agent Helix at your service," the man introduced himself, bending his body in a polite gesture accustomed to Shinku's culture which intrigued the assassin of shadows even more. The culture itself had been gone as far as he knew it, dead in fact along with the obliteration of his clan. "And I was asked to call you Mr. O'Skully. Trevor O'Skully if I'm not mistaken," he continued, raising his body back to a straight, elegant stance. He spoke in a rather formal manner, his young visage sporting a calm, yet confident expression.

"Asked?," Shinku responded briefly, his tone betraying a hint of suspicion.

"By Carnival Rosa, the organization that I represent. And yes, we know who you really are," Helix quickly responded with a polite smile, too polite that it felt too sinister given the context of their conversation. His demeanor wasn't entirely hostile, but his confident expression behind the sensitive words he uttered hinted a dangerous persona behind his innocent facade. "But as I've said before, I intend no harm nor to frighten you with a threat. Rather, I came here for an offer, a chance to test yourself and fortune along with it," he offered, gesturing a beckoning motion with his right hand.

Shinku responded in silence, eyeing the stranger warily with his piercing eyes. He kept his ground, unsure whether he would want to hear more of the stranger's offer or just plan his escape.

"Of course, the offer comes with a price. It's a game to be frank, something similar to Dante's Abyss, but well, with a different set of rules. Though of course, the same as that game, this one is similarly flavored with a death match," he explained in his usual conversational tone, his eyes unwavering at Shinku's glare of suspicion.

"I assume you got my information from Karl Jak, is that right?," the assassin retorted, his eyes narrowing at the agent.

"We, rather, have our own ways of gathering information. But I assure you, it's nothing that you need to worry about," Helix replied calmly, his voice devoid of any hint of faltering or discomfort despite Shinku's icy gaze.

"So the game's more like - kill or be killed for that 'fortune'," Shinku muttered, his eyes suddenly veering elsewhere.

"That's pretty much it. But consider this, with the offer of riches and prestige, who knows who might show up as your competitor? Maybe even someone you'd need to deal with. Besides, aren't you used to killing people? And I'm certain that you've got a long list of your personal targets." Helix continued, his lips forming a sly grin. He eyed Shinku closely, his eyes glinting as if a predator that almost caught its prey.

Shinku stared down, deep in thought, his tight grip on his sword loosening ever so slightly as he contemplated Helix's offer. As he looked up again, he met the gaze of the agent, a smile spreading across the man's face as if certain of closing his deal. "What if I decline?," he asked, his glare softening slightly into a look of curiosity.

"Well, there's nothing much that we can do about it. And there are plenty of other combatants that we can ask to participate anyway. But then again, we couldn't guarantee that such an opportunity would come your way again," Helix responded confidently, a wide inviting smile now playing on his lips.

Shinku nodded silently, his gaze still fixed on the agent as he thought of his decision. "So what are the terms?," he asked after a short pause, his hand finally freeing the hilt of his weapon.

"Pretty simple really. Fancy us with an interview, and express your interest to play the death game in front of a camera. There's no need to trade your soul or anything," Helix chuckled lightly, throwing his hand out in a dismissive gesture. "On a more serious note, you'd have to part with that weapon temporarily while you're in the game. Also, we'll be toning down your abilities slightly but rest assured that the same applies to the rest of the participants. I'm sure you're familiar with this one," Helix explained, pulling out what looked like a metal collar from the side pocket of his tuxedo. "This one will limit your abilities, mostly the same as your experience at Karl's game. The same applies, remove it and 'poof' you'd be obliterated to smithereens and that will be an automatic loss for you," he continued, walking closer to Shinku to hand the collar.

Shinku glanced down at the object in Helix' hand, hesitating a bit before reaching out for the collar. Once he held it in his hands, memories of Karl's game rushed into his mind. Sweet and bitter memories alike flooded his thought before he decided to face Helix again with a nod of approval. "Fine, I will join your game," he said with a terse voice, placing the collar inside his cloak.

"Sweet! Good to have you on board. So let's get started with the preparations!," Helix exclaimed, throwing his right hand in the air, his open palm facing upwards. Within the blink of an eye, his body dispersed into a multitude of black rose petals which all rushed towards Shinku and circled the assassin of shadows in a violent twirl. Shinku flinched, almost deciding to escape the chaos but immediately calmed down upon sensing the absence of any dangerous threat from any of the petals. In fact, the presence of any sentient beings around him disappeared from his senses one after the other.

The petals moved faster until they became mere blurs of a black twister that covered Shinku's sight of his surroundings, the presence of people that were previously around him replaced by the spiritual presence of other beings, all totally stranger to him. Moments later, the black twister slowed down, the petals suddenly dispersing away from Shinku in a single direction. As they did so, the assassin of shadow's view was opened to a small room, manned by two female staff. The taller one between the two, greeted Shinku with a bubbly smile, immediately waving her hands in a welcoming gesture. The other one, a petite brown-haired woman, simply adjusted her glasses, her eyes trained on the screen of the tablet she was holding.

"Ladies, our guest, Mr. O' Skully has arrived," the voice of Helix surprised Shinku once again from behind but this time, causing little concern to the assassin of shadows. What Shinku did instead, was to bend his body in a gesture of courtesy to the ladies.

"Oh, there's no need for formalities Sh...errr...Trevor," the taller, blonde-haired woman giggled, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture, her bright hazel eyes momentary peering over Helix's sudden glare. "We..just want to ask you some questions," she continued, veering her eyes back at the assassin of shadows who has now straightened himself back up.

"But first, you might want to sit down," the other lady interjected while gesturing towards a small chair, positioned in front of the blonde lady's desk, where Shinku immediately walked towards and sat down. "Now then...", she continued while pressing a couple of buttons on her tablet. "...before we proceed, We'd like to inform you that this interview is being recorded and fed live for our distinguished clients. There's one camera right in front of you," she noted, pointing her finger at an eyeball-like device, floating in front of Shinku. "And two more right over there, and there," she continued, pointing at a fixed-mounted camera on the wall just beside the assassin of shadows and then to the other one, at the corner of the room behind him. "If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ask right away, and we'll try to give you an answer to the best that we can. So without any further ado, I'll turn you back to Agent Aiko," the lady concluded, planting her eyes back on her tablet.

"Sweet! Thanks for that Jiyala!," Aiko responded, giving a wide smile at her companion before glancing back at Shinku. "So then, Trevor, what can we expect from one of the finalists of Karl's survival game for last year?", she beamed a smile, as she paused to wait for the assassin's reply.

Shinku remained silent for a moment, gazing alternately at the women in front of him before answering. "If they're here, perhaps for entertainment, I'm certain that I can give them a better one than what I showed from Karl's game," he answered cryptically, meeting Aiko's eyes head on.

"Interesting! So how do you intend to offer more 'entertainment' to our beloved audiences," Aiko giggled, leaning forward on her desk, her voice carrying a hint of intrigue.

"This time, I will fight to win," he responded sternly and briefly, veering his gaze towards the floating camera.

"So do you think you can win this game?," Aiko challenged, her lips extending to a smirk.

Shinku chuckled lightly in response, pausing for a second before replying. "Who knows? We'll never know till we try, right?," he smirked back, his gaze unfaltering before the lady.

"Of course! Of Course!," Aiko laughed, smacking her hands playfully together. "Well then, I guess we can't make our audiences wait any longer. Welcome to Carnival Rosa Trevor, and I wish you all the luck! Jiyala?," she greeted Shinku before turning her over to her companion.

Jiyala responded with a nod, before walking towards Shinku. "If you could please follow me," she motioned to the assassin as she walked past him.

Shinku immediately complied, seeing Helix once again, standing right beside the door. The agent greeted Shinku with a smile and a sluggish salute eyeing the assassin of shadows as the latter left the room.

The door opened to a wide hall area, crowded with a multitude of strangers, most of them dressed in similar suits as Helix and the others. The atmosphere was busy, influenced by the staff that roamed around in predetermined routes, some ushering more strangers into a variety of other rooms. Shinku himself, marched after Jiyala, his eyes discretely roaming around the place in curiosity. It wasn't much of a long walk, too short in fact, if not for the winding paths they had to take to make way for the others that crossed their path. Eventually, they arrived at a short, narrow hallway sporting a teleportation device on its end.

"I'm sure by now, you're used to the ways of that device," Jiyala uttered, pointing Shinku towards the teleportation pad with her tablet. "And if you could please surrender your sword. We'll make sure to take good care of it while you're in the game," she asked, in her usual stern tone, to which Shinku immediately complied.

He continued towards the straight path, freeing his lungs with an anxious sigh before finally stepping towards the pad. He heard the faint chime of the teleporter, as it whirred into life just a few seconds after he stepped on it. "Here goes nothing," he muttered, as he once again felt the sensation of his body being pulled from different directions, his vision surrendering to a sudden bright light.
 

Sandor Clegane

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“Man, how come it’s always the slums? Every year I get assigned to some shithole, backwater corner of some scummy ass-”

His shift mate cut him off curtly with a harsh clearing of the throat, and a biting glare.

“I grew up poor, you know,” she said coldly. “Really poor.”

“You?” he threw his head back and laughed, mirthless, before meeting her gaze. “Look at you! You’re dressed to the nines!”

“We’re all dressed to the nines. It’s part of the job. They literally hand you a suit to do this shit.”

They fell silent and a pregnant pause swelled between them, uncomfortably, broken occasionally by the sound of the locals bustling by. The street wasn’t busy busy, but it had a healthy smattering of foot traffic. It was dusty to boot, and everytime a gaggle of children shot past with the frenetic energy that belongs only to the youth a cloud of dust kicked up in their wake, and took just a little too long to dissipate. Not the kind of place you’d expect to find two suits kicking back in lawn chairs beneath a makeshift tarp-and-rod awning, clipboards in hand, bickering about the poor.

“...well, hang on,” the man in the suit started, after a glance at his clipboard. “Look at this! King Shark! King! Maybe there’s some upper crust down here in the gutters after all!”

The woman - a blonde affair with neatly kept hair pinned up behind simple black barrettes - decided to take the opportunity to show some smug.

“See? I told you. Not everyone in a place like this is a low-life. A lot of poor towns are made up of folks who used to be rich. Sometimes they’re minor land barons displaced by the Unmaking, or retainers of some General who lost power, or died in battle, or something. I think you’ll see that when you poke around in the gutters of the world, you’ll find that a lot of the trash consists of fallen flowers.”

The silence fell again, but didn’t feel as thick. Even the patina of dust that had gathered on their ordinarily pristine suit-and-tie get up felt a little prettier in the wake of her revelation.

“Maybe you’re right,” he admitted, then sighed. “Hell, with a name like King Shark maybe he used to rule a…”

They exchanged a glance.

“King Shark?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Do you think he’s like…King of Sharks? Or like, some guy who looks like a shark?”

“Maybe it’s colloquial. Maybe he’s the King of the Sharks in a business sense…like he’s a shark at business or something. Or a pool shark.”

“Or a loan shark,” she added, chuckling.

The glass of water on the overturned cable-reel-made-table between them suddenly shook and the gentles ripped formed in its center, as if someone had dropped a pebble right into the glass.

It was a subtle thing that drew their gazes none-the-less and they watched as it increased moment to moment in both intensity and frequency. Before long the vibration found accompaniment in an approaching sound: a thudding slap, slap, slap like someone was beating an enormous leather sack full of wet socks against a concrete floor.

It got closer.

And closer, until-

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT!”

Two men swept out in front of the awning flanking an enormous horror. His meat slab feet, bare against the cracked concrete of the sidewalk, came to a stop and the slapping sound stopped with them.

“It’s an actual fucking shark!? Like a walking man-shark!? Are you fucking kidding me!?” the man in the lawn chair pushed backward as far as he could go the way a panicked maid might do if she’d found an enormous rat, gaping and pointing.

His colleague mouthed wordlessly.

King Shark lifted a hand the size of a whole spiral ham and wiggled his webbed digits. On either end of him the men who’d scouted him, worked up the gumption to speak to him, and then worked up the even larger gumption to walk him down the street and present him to the interviewers had the good sense to at least look apologetic.

“His name is Nanaue,” began the man standing to Nanaue’s left. “Make sure you say it right, I don’t think he likes it pronounced wrong. Nuh-nah-way. He’s a descendant of an ancient Shark God, or some kind of mutation-”

King Shark’s head, which extended from his shoulders in a way that made one wonder whether he had no neck or was one hundred percent neck, turned to regard the man who was speaking. He was a literal mouth breather, so the slash of his jaw hung open and put on display a couple of rows of nasty looking teeth that punched through gums which resembled nothing more than raw meat.

His eyes - small, wet, and reflective black orbs - stared unblinkingly at the recruiter.

“...let’s not talk about what he is or isn’t,” the recruiter concluded hastily. “Anyway, havefunbye!”

The last three words were a smashed up, hasty amalgam. The two recruiters were gone in a flash and with them left the remaining buffer between the interview team and the man-shark. He walked forward in an awkward waddling gait, the only conceivable way something as wide as he could walk, and turned his head from one suit to the other…then back…and then back again.

Almost seven feet tall, grey, thick, wide as a dresser, corded with natural muscle, and wearing nothing but a pair of jean shorts; Nanaue commanded the attention of the street. No more children ran by. A panicked mother had ushered a young girl back indoors across the road. Two hardhats up on scaffolding on a nearby building had stopped to gawk.

King Shark pointed at his open mouth.

“Num nums?” he asked.

The man in the suit turned his head slowly and looked at the woman, his partner, with whom he had been arguing only moments before about the nature of poverty.

“...do you want to get the video camera?”

She continued to mouth silently, trying to find words, still staring at Nanaue.
 

John Connor

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Having seen Rome sacked over time in a matter of days by Britons, Legatus Vatallion thought he had seen the end of his days there. As a veteran of many battles, he thought that it was only a matter of time before the city collapsed due to the Commander of the Barbarians, Boudica. The elephantus (elephant) she rode was large and grey in color.

A spear seemed to flash through his mind as he swung the spear into the elephant's eye, and the beast was delayed for what seemed like a moment. The battle wasn't looking good.

In the process of slaying the beast, he fought against Boudica for several minutes before finally disappearing.

In a single motion, he pushed himself off the ground, grasping his shield and sword and moving forward.

"SHIT!" he cursed, despite the fact he was on foreign soil. Maybe he was somewhere else?

In the moment, he slammed the sword lightly into the ground, biting his tongue. His anger was unimaginable right now. He hadn't considered anything happening to him over time. Now what would he do?

Funny how things can change in a split second as he heard voices in the forest and heard a foreign voice murmur something in a foreign language.

There is no way I am traveling by horse into the forest to find potential recruits for Carneval Rosa again."

Vatallion was immediately on guard, hearing the murmuring for the first time.

As the strange man approached, the vatallion lay on a makeshift bed surrounded by leaves and more. "Ahem, you're a Carnival Rosa contestant?" The Roman commander had no idea what the man was talking about once again. The message was in a foreign language and the man had just discovered his location, so he didn't understand it either.


His voice changed into another language translated to the Legatus on the ground and this perked the soldier up as well. He groaned, clicked his universal translator, and groaned.


While pointing his sword at the other man in irritation, he wondered what he meant. The only word Battalion understood was fight, but everything else was about glory and rewards. Battalion finally turned to see what this man was holding in a strange, box-like device as the words drifted through his mind.

During the translation of what a video camera did, did, and would do, the man translated the question, "Well, are you coming or what?". As the Legutus grabbed his sword and shield and the box glared in his face, blissfully unaware that he would be shown everywhere in the Crossroads for this, he grabbed the sword and shield and glared at it. “This fight? It means something, right? You can win riches and glory?” On screen, the language was mixed with Latin and English.

Seeing the other soldier, the man glanced at him, wondering if he had picked the right man. "I'll take you to the entrance area now." he replied in a matter of fact tone.

As they continued through the Hinterlands at a moderate speed, Vatallion got serious once a giant building came into view.

“Welcome to “your home away from home!” at the crossroads!"

Ugh, what a bad first line.
 

John Connor

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"Yeah, we've found the soldier you were looking for," the commander said, still confused about why he was still alive, how they found him, etc. Upon entering the building, he noticed its door was vibrant and rich, unlike what he expected of Roman luxury. He and the others passed through the door. After yawning, interviewer 43 turned back to the General and said, "Well, I'm going to Crossbucks for coffee now." Then he vanished, off to coffee "Heaven"

. As soon as the Legatus realized they had never seen the interview crew before, they turned and saw two more smiley faces. "Hi! Welcome! Can you tell us more about yourself and your abilities?" After some frustrating 20 minutes, the two interviewers realized they had to wear universal translators to understand this guy. “Vatallion,” the Legutus glared coldly, emotionless, at him. “That’s all you get from me.” The camera people glanced nervously back at the Commander, then at the blonde ambitious camerawoman standing nearby. Wow, he sounds really bored. Would you mind hurrying things up a bit? Well, Mr. “Vattallion.” What can you do to impress this crowd? In his view, the Roman Legustus was not the showy type, but in front of Crossroads-branded television sets he stood up and said, “I’m here to prove myself worthy.”
 

Ridley

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Flak was dropped off rather unceremoniously by the dreadnought in some uncertain part of Erde nona, stumbling around the green, grassy plains near Arcadia.

“Hmm, what do I say? Uhhh…. Death gameeee! Wanna goooo!” Flak uttered out.

“Oh my, so you wish to join after all, mister Flak?” A voice popped in from behind.

Flak turned around and adjusted his goggles, seeing some weirdo in a cloak, and sporting a pair of bunny ears. “Yeah. Wanna head there.”

“Most of the time people get scouted by us. And brought there after the details are explained-”

“Do I get to smash things?”

The figure’s ears flopped forward, As they leaned just enough for a delicate nose to be seen. ‘Well, yes.”

“I get money?”

“If you revive.”

“Food?”

“All complimentary.”

“Vegetables?”

“All entirely optional.”

The big man stomped his feet, making a large mudhole in the midst of the grassy plains with his steel toes. “What are we waitin’ for! bring me to the stomphouse!”

“...of… course, Mister Flak.”
 

Ridley

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The magical bunny-person did not, sadly, bring Flak directly to the event, but instead some glorified podium thing. As he approached what was supposedly a teleporter, he was given a pen, told to sign a few waivers - which he did, even kept mostly in the lines, - and then the questions started. and the photos. and the flashing lights with no Goddang purpose!"

Eventually, one guy got in front of him, a man with a well-kept bowtie, a neat mustache, and a distracting set of moose antlers on his head that cut through Flak's general irritation with confusion for just long enough the guy could start the questioning.

"What is your name, Contestant?" the mooseman asked, his deep voice booming through the microphone he now offered to Flak.

"Name's Flak. S'it to ya, mooseman?"

"This one's a bright one, isn't he, folks? guessed my name correctly on the first try!”

Flak was pretty sure this guy was bullied as a kid with a name like that. Then again, moose antlers, so maybe not. Flak wasn’t about to get gored, ‘cause he’d heard about how dangerous meese are.

“But this isn’t about me. Tell us more about yourself, Flak. Who are you? What do you enjoy?”

“Well… Used to be a commanding officer in the black hole army. Was a private before that. Really big fan of meat, don’t like Vegetables, ‘cause that’s for my meat to eat. Plants just exist to make the meat delicious later.”

“So you usually eat prey animals?”

“No, I usually eat steak.”

The mooseman gave a laugh, which seemed to be at Flak’s expense, but he couldn’t quite prove it, so he was allowed to avoid a smashin’ for now.

“Well, what is your current employment.”

“WYVERN. Serving under the big D. Dragon, I mean. Ridley.” Flak would add nonchalantly. “Army general.”

The Mooseman’s eyes went wide, changing his tone slightly, “ahh, so you’re in the business of… well, aggressive acquisitions?”

Flak pondered for a moment, before answering. “My business is the same here as it is out there. I’m here to smash things.”

“I see. And what is the reward you’re looking for from the deathgame?”

“...To smash things. You got somethin’ in your ears, funny man?” Flak asked, instinctively using his pinky to check for wax in his own.

“Wow, what a hoot! Alright, what do you have to say to the fans at home?”

Flak looked to the camera now aggressively in his face, looking ponderous.

“Kids, don’t stay in school. Do what I did, and join the army soon as you can! If you’re good at smashing things, you’ll get noticed by someone big and they’ll just make you a general. If you’re bad at smashing things, get good at it! Simple..” The giant replied, before getting ready to go through the teleporter.

“One more thing before we go Flak… What do you think your chances are for winning the deathgame?”

Flak just turned back and snorted, glaring at the mooseman with a steely gaze. “Chances. What chances do I think I have?”

Mooseman gave a nod and a gulp in response, as Flak just gave off a grunt of exasperation. . “Do I look like a mathematician? I don’t Do nerd questions, shrimp. Find someone else to bother.”
 

Anders Nazret

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Heralds of the True Heir
There were few schools of magic as reviled as Necromancy. And for good reason. Pyromancers didn’t crawl into corpses and walk them around like twisted hand puppets. Enchanters didn’t lay curses of aging upon their enemies. Abjurationists didn’t wear the bones of other people’s kin. No, these depraved acts were reserved for those demented enough to desecrate the dead and disturb their spirits. Laurentius Abernathy knew how people perceived her and her craft. If she wasn’t met with outright hostility then she was at least met with open disdain. But, to a parched and sun-baked throat a drink of rancid water was the sweetest thing in the world.

She arrived at the cottage late in the day. Recent rain storms had left the ground soft and the air petrichor. She rode in a carriage made from wood stained with black varnish and pulled by a pair of skeletal horses. She had raised these horses from when they were foals and now they served her dutifully in death. It was not a cruel fate as some would surmise. She beckoned and they willingly returned from the afterlife, and for that, she was grateful. They no longer made noise, at least not in the ways a living horse might. Instead they clattered and clacked as they trundled along with the cart creaking behind them. Now, though, stopped in front of the cottage, they were silent.

It was never a joyous occasion, her arrival. People only ever called for her when things had gone too far. Necromancers were not the kind of people one called for unless they had no other options. Laurentius held no resentment about this simple fact. She had seen the horrors her peers had wrought and there was no apology sufficient for their crimes. Still, a quiet yet stubborn part of her wished for some recognition. For someone to approve of what she was doing and what she had done. It was vanity to be sure, but who wasn’t at least a little bit vain?

She stepped out of the carriage, her boots squishing in the half-mud. Her overcoat was the same shade of black as her carriage and it clung to her in a way that made her small frame seem much larger than it actually was. Despite the gloomy afternoon she wore a pair of round shades with a black mirror coat. These served two purposes. One - they let her eyes pry and wander without making people uncomfortable. Two - they were enchanted to allow her to see spirits and other normally invisible creatures. She smoked Virginia Slim 100s which left a thin trail of smoke as she walked up to the cottage. She knocked on the door.

Almost immediately the door swung open. Standing in the doorway was a small man with skin like leather and hair like white cotton fluff. He looked up at her, daring a glance at her shades before forcing his gaze to the ground. That was one of the things people believed, that meeting eyes with a Necromancer let them steal your soul. The truth was that if a competent Necromancer wanted your soul they needed even less than eye contact to make that happen. Nervously his fingernails bit into the wooden door.

“G’evening,” He muttered, keeping his gaze low and his voice lower.

“Good evening,” She answered and held out her gloved hand, “Clay is it?”

“Yes’m,” He answered and eyed her outstretched hand as if it was some sort of toxic predator. Then, cautiously, after apparently deciding that a glove was enough separation from her, he reached out and shook her hand. His nails had grave dirt under them, an observation that she kept to herself.

“Name’s Laurentius Abernathy, call me Lauren if you will,” She said. “So, where’s the body?”

The man led her around the back of the cottage. He walked with a limp, but did his best to hide it. He brought her to the cottage’s cellar door, which had been barred with a shovel shoved through the handles. They stood in front of the door while she idly looked around the backyard. It wasn’t particularly large as The Hinterlands forestline squeezed in on all sides. Regardless, there was enough room for an outhouse and a vegetable garden. One of the garden beds had been smashed open, spilling soil and half-grown root vegetables onto the ground. Lastly there was an unmarked grave, open and fresh.

“She’s down there,” The man said, pointing a crooked finger towards the door.

Lauren nodded, adjusted her gloves, and asked, “Who was she?”

The man looked away, “M’wife.”

“Your wife?” She asked, “What happened?”

He sniffed sharply and even with his gaze averted she could see wetness forming in the corners of his eyes. He answered, “She got sick. Passed in her sleep and ah buried her. She didn’t stay buried. Kept coming out of the ground and actin’ like she was livin’. She’d try an’ fix breakfast or supper or tend to her garden, but her body just kept on a’rottin’.”

“So you locked her in the cellar?”

“Thought if I just kept her under the earth she’d finally rest.” He nodded, “She’s just been a wailin’ though. All night I can hear her sobbin’ through the floorboards.”

Poor man. This was a danger with dying in your sleep. If you’re a real heavy sleeper and you die when you’re in a deep deep sort of sleep then sometimes you never get the memo that you were dead. Lauren frowned. Poor woman thought she was stuck in some sort of nightmare when the reality of it was much simpler - she was dead.

“Thanks,” Lauren said, pulling a paper packet from inside her coat, “You don’t have to be here for this, Clay, I can handle it from here.”

He shook his head, “If’n it’s all the same, I’d like to stay. Least I can do is comfort her on her way out.”

“Very well,” She said. She tore the top of the packet open. Inside was a couple tablespoons of fresh white salt. There was nothing special about it. It carried no blessings nor consecrations, but it still served her purposes quite well. She continued to speak, “Then, if you would be so kind as to open the cellar.”

Clay nodded and limped over to the cellar door. He grabbed the neck of the shovel and pulled it free from the door handles. With a bit of straining he heaved the door open and stepped back. As expected the cellar was not much more than a dark pit below the cottage. The stairs down were compacted dirt and had bits of root growing from them. Lauren stepped to the edge of the steps and poured the salt into her palm. She crouched down slightly and threw the salt into the dark abyss below. After a moment there was a low droning hiss that developed into a shrill scream. She could hear scratching and thrashing and screeching down there in the dark. A mason jar filled with pickled vegetables was thrown from the darkness and smashed on the stairway.

Lauren threw more salt down and the screaming intensified. It was a horrid kind of death wail that rattled her skull. She retrieved a pair of ear plugs from her coat. Just as she was jamming them into her ears the body burst forth from the darkness. Salt was anathema to lesser spirits and it burned them with an intensity usually reserved for slugs. The old man’s wife was dressed in tatters and covered in slick mud. What skin remained uncovered was puffy and green. Her bones cracked like twigs and her belly sloshed like a plastic bag full of cottage cheese. She rushed up the stairs, screaming and crying and wailing. Lauren had learned that the dead were quicker than anyone gave them credit for and she had long stepped to the side.

Something that Lauren had never gotten used to was the stench. Cadavers had a nauseatingly sweet smell that was quite unlike anything else. It clung to the insides of your nostrils and refused to let go for days at a time. Early in her career she had learned a simple trick. Peppermint oil was strong enough to cut through the stench of death and so she applied a bit of it to her upper lip before any jobs. And from the state of decomposition she could tell it was well worth it.

“Claudia!” Clay cried out and dropped to his knees. For the first time since her arrival he looked Lauren in the eyes. “Let her take me,” He pleaded, “Then put us both down.”

The zombie surged towards them. Claudia had become a disgusting and dangerous creature. Like a baby chick unable to crack open its own egg the soul rotted and died if it couldn’t leave its own corpse. In such a situation aggression was normal. She may have been dangerous, but she was not evil. Evil or not, given the chance Claudia would have snapped Clay’s neck in an instant. Lauren stepped between the husband and wife. She reached out towards the stumbling corpse, grabbing its forehead.

“Shhhh,” Lauren whispered softly, “Be quiet lost soul.”

Not evil, Laurentius reminded herself. Just confused. She felt the ethereal ghost of Claudia stuck within her own flesh. It was a dreaming fugue that gripped her. Unable to come to terms with her death and unable to find solace in her nightmares. Poor poor woman. Lauren hushed her again and she fell silent. Wake up, Lauren urged. You knew this was coming, so please wake up. Death is not as bad as you may think, so please wake up. The body fell limp as Claudia’s spirit climbed free like a lizard would shed skin. That was all she needed, just a gentle push.

“There, there,” Lauren comforted, “See? Much better, much better than that old fleshy thing.”

She watched as the spirit smiled and faded into nothing more than whispers on the wind. Behind her Clay stirred. Tears streamed down the dry crevices of his face. He stooped over the body of his wife and, with some effort, lifted it. He carried her over to the grave and began to shovel in dirt.

“Shoulda let me go,” He grunted, “Why didn’t ya let me go?”

Lauren sighed. Grief was never easy to watch. She turned away and flicked her cigarette onto the ground.

“You know, just cause she’s dead doesn’t mean she’s gone, and it’s not like you’ll never see her again.” Lauren said, “Besides, it’d be a shame if that garden fell apart because no one was around to care for it.”

--

It was quite a long ride to her next destination and Lauren spent half of it dozing off in the backseat of her carriage. Applegate and Clarence were more than capable of guiding themselves and she took the time to get some rest. Or, rather, she tried to get some rest. Her carriage had come to a stop and a chill had filled the air. It wasn’t uncommon for her to encounter wayward spirits, Necromancers had a certain gravity about them that the dead flocked to. Her mind was on a ghoul or wraith of some sort as she opened the carriage door and stepped out. Instead there was simply a man standing in the road.

“Good evening Laurentius,” He said, “I’m a big fan of your work you know.”

“Is that so?” She answered.

He was sharply dressed, wearing a pressed suit and dress shoes. Not exactly the most appropriate attire for the depths of the Hinterlands.

“Oh, indeed,” He answered, “At first I wasn’t, y’know when my employer told me to start building a file on some no-name necromancer I practically rolled my eyes out of their sockets. I mean, come on, a necromancer? You’ve seen one, you've seen them all.”
Lauren didn’t answer. She looked towards his hips, expecting to see some sort of weaponry, but she found nothing.

“But!” The man continued, “But you, Laurentius, aren’t like those edgy pre-teens playing babby’s first demonic ritual.”

“Demonology is pretty far from Necromancy,” She corrected, “And call me Lauren.”

“Right, right you are, Lauren,” He said, “Regardless, I’ll cut to the chase - You’ve been selected to participate in the Death Games! What a wonderful honor for you! Think of all the prizes you could win!”

“I think I’ll pass,” She said.

“Oh, oh, sorry, perhaps I wasn’t very clear,” He said, “This was not an invitation, this was a selection. Subtle difference in the implications, but they’d prefer us not to use the word ‘abduction’ or ‘kidnapping’.”

Something swirled in the air around him. Imperceptible to the naked eye, but her glasses left her eyes far from naked. A spirit had been forcibly bonded to him. It crawled out of his back, spilling out into the air like an angry red cloud. Horns and teeth appeared along with a metal-studded club. There was little mistaking an Oni. Even though it sat just outside the realm of necromancy she still recognized a demon when she saw one.

“So my options are die in your little game or die here and now?”

“Well, not exactly,” The man said, “I’d beat you to a pulp here and drag your battered body back with me. They’d patch you up and then you’d get to participate in the festivities. Besides, that’s a macabre way of looking at it - you might not die.”

“Right,” She said, “Applegate, Clarence, head on back home. If I’m not back in a month, release your bonds to this world and rest peacefully.”

“Thought you’d see it my way,” The recruiter said, beaming with delight.

--

“Name?”

“Laurentius Abernathy… call me Lauren.”

“Right, Lauren, and what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a necromancer.”
“Ooh, so you like, have an army of undead minions ready to do your bidding?”

“Not exactly.”

“Right, so do you, like collect souls and trade them on the black market?”

“What?! Absolutely not.”

This continued on for quite some time, far longer than Lauren would have liked. She did her best to answer questions succinctly, but by the end of it she was so irritated by the interviewer that she could have made an exception to the “no stealing souls” rule. Regardless, he was eventually satisfied and sent her on through to the staging area.
 

Karl Jak

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Part 1 (from: https://multerra.zulenka.com/index.php?threads/anti-hero.1998/#post-17910)
Which one was this again?

Kevin frowned as he pulled out his tablet and tried to quick swipe through the collection of nearly identical mugshots. To the untrained eye, it was a parade of Karl Jak selfies, but to Kevin, his keen eye could detect the subtle nuances that were cooked into the majority of the variants.

“Hello, Mr. Jak,” Kevin finally replied as he finished his search and let the tablet computer resumes its dangle from the shoulder strap he’d adopted a few months earlier. “I didn’t know he had assigned you to this portion of the facility.”

Karl rolled his eyes. It was one of Syntech’s worst kept secrets that there was more than one Karl Jak, but the CEO of the company still didn’t enjoy being reminded of that fact. After all, these weren’t so much clones—such a garish and passe concept—but additional vessels for his consciousness. Gone were those rainbow days of needing to rely upon quasi-autonomous ‘help’. Now, that didn’t mean that some of them weren’t unique, but hey, everyone deserves an opportunity to deviate from the norm.

“How may I help you, Kevin?”

“You missed out on the board meeting, Mr. Jak,” Kevin replied.

“Isn’t this why I have a chairperson?”

The PA furrowed his brow. “Yes, but you usually don’t miss the meetings. You usually have someone from your… collection show themselves.”

“I’ve been busy lately,” Karl remarked.

“The project for PS23?”

“The project for PS23.”

“Should I make a note to expect you to miss out on future business meetings, Mr. Jak?”

Karl nodded his head. “Give me a month or so, and I’ll be in a better headspace.”

“You said that last month.”

The man rolled his eyes. “No one likes to have their faults constantly thrown in their face, Kevin. I can’t help it that I’m a workaholic… you know I’m trying to save the cosmos, right?”

“Of course, Mr. Jak,” Kevin remarked without looking up from his tablet, which had started to scrawl a litany of notes and schedule adjustments. “I’ve already called ahead and made the arrangements for your departure to the registration station, Mr. Jak. I found one that was sufficiently off the beaten path, as you requested.”

“Excellent,” Karl replied as he headed for the door. “Do you mind accompanying me, Kevin? It’s a somber walk, so it’ll be nice to do it with a friend.”

The word choice brought a smile to Kevin’s face, and the young man momentarily forgot about the number of calendar events he had lined up for the post-lunch window. “Of course, Mr. Jak, I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

With a smile, Karl gave Kevin a pat on the shoulder as the pair made their way through the facility and discussed a litany of topics, like cantina specials, the upcoming professional development series, and the quarterly reports from the various departments. After a few minutes, they arrived in the little room that housed the teleportation technology that would dispatch them to Nowheres-ville, Erde Nona.

“Come now, Kevin,” Karl laughed as his assistant seemed to pivot. “Can’t quit on me now.”

“Of course, Boss,” the ginger replied with a smile as the two stepped onto the platform and gave the signal to the engineer.[/I]


Stepping off of the teleportation platform, the pair made their way through the fast pass line and found themselves smiling back at the seasonal helper manning what was a very quiet registration setting.

“Are you a voluntary worker?” Karl inquired with a smile, which prompted the young woman to furrow her brow. “Blink twice for me if you’re being held against your will as part of a human trafficking ring.”

“I-I-I assure you that I’m here of my own free will, Sir,” she replied as she glanced at the two for a few moments before staring at the screen. “You are the participant for the Death Game who sent their information ahead of time?

“Present and accounted for.”

“Is it all right if I—” Kevin scowled as his focus shifted from his boss to the registration woman and back again. “Wait, why is she staring at me.”

“Because your name is on the paperwork,” Karl replied nonchalantly as a wide-eyed Kevin twisted and stared at the information on the screen of the terminal. After a moment, he craned his neck to stare at his supervisor.

“When you said you wanted me to update my resume, it was…”

“For this, obviously,” Karl laughed. “You should know better than me that we only update headshots annually.”

Kevin scowled—a silent admission that he should have known better. “And that ‘out of cycle’ contract resigning?”

“Didn’t you attend Ronald’s recent seminar on ‘How to Make Friends and Read Fine Print’? Didn’t I see you on the list?”

“I was… sick.” Kevin knew Karl knew that the PA had spent that morning nursing a rather unpleasant hangover after ‘Margarita Monday’ in the cantina.

“That’s okay,” Karl spoke with a smile as he half-ushered, half-jostled his PA down the hall to the teleportation room. “It happens to all of us.”

“But why?”

Karl threw his head back in a laugh. “Come now, Kevin! It’s a plot twist! You can’t just put out three seasons of the same ole song and dance and expect to maintain your audience. You have to innovate,” with that, he patted the young man on the shoulders. “And you, my boy, are that innovation! You’re going to knock ‘em dead… probably literally.”

“But what about my duties?” Kevin protested as he held up his tablet. “I have a litany of scheduled meetings and follow-ups planned.”

“I reassigned all your job duties this morning.”

“You what?”

“I found a capable replacement for the next week or so.”

“Who?”

“The girl one,” Karl answered after a brief moment of drawn-out contemplation that was punctuated with a grin and a finger snap. “Charlie! That’s the one. I gave her your job.”

You what?

Karl answered that question by reaching out and grabbing the tablet. As Kevin’s eyes fell to his most sacred of possessions, he failed to see the other hand of his boss brandish a syringe that quickly jabbed into the younger man’s neck.

Recoiling even as he felt a flushness cascaded over him, Kevin’s focus shifted back to his boss. “What?”

“Superpowers … obviously,” Karl Jak replied with a roll of his eyes. “You think people just want to watch a PA stumble around a death jungle for a few days? You know how tired that trope can be?”

Unable to respond due to the newfound dryness in his throat, Kevin found himself being gently pushed onto the teleporter pad, and in a swirl of lights, the ginger was on his way.
 

Number Five

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The sun was at its peak in one of the many desserts Mesa roja had to offer. Scorching rays found their way to the sandy surface of the dunes. Sand and rocky plains stretched as far as the eyes could see. At the top of one of the sandy hills an unnatural phenomenon appeared—a dark black and blue cloud materialised, not bigger than a car. Lightning and thunder was heard as something that could be described as a blurred looking glass formed at the centre or it. A child's face formed as something came closer to the other end of the eye of the storm. A young prepubescent boy, as if spat out, appeared from the storm. Which in turn dissipated into thin air.

The new arrival bounced downhill, erupting clouds of dust with every thud as he made his way down. The human projectile came to a stop when it arrived at the bottom of a large dune hill. With a groan the turmoiled boy placed his hands in the scorching sand trying to lift himself up. Both hands and feet got pushed slightly deeper into the grainy surface as he managed to get up. When Number Five was fully erect he looked around, glancing over the lifeless surroundings. "What the hell is this place? Luthor?! Klaus?! Anyone here?!" Five's cry for his siblings went unanswered. "Ah shit." He expressed, realising he was on his own again.

Before anything the umbrella student started patting down his uniform, attempting to get off as much sand as possible. The grains were everywhere, in his jacket, shirt, even his knee high socks managed to house some unwanted souvenirs. Number Five was almost done when a high pitched whistle from afar caught his attention. Using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun the young man squinted towards the urban calling.

Far in the distance, through the heat emitted from the sand, Five was able to make out two blurred figures in blue suits standing in front of what appeared to be a diner? The former agent recognised the uniforms in an instant. Obviously, seeing as he worked for the same organisation for 45 years. He straightened the jacket of his academy uniform and started walking towards the odd sight in the distance. With every step his previously neat shoes got buried in the sand, making the walk more exhausting than it should be. Drops of sweat made their way down his spine as the heat was warming his body to new and unpleasant temperatures. The out of place establishment appeared to get closer, with the --heat--playing tricks on his eyes Five underestimated just how far it was. However, he was now close enough to make out who his welcome comité was.

One was a short, slim asian woman. Her dark hair was tied up in a ponytail to the left side of her head. It was a futile attempt to cover the scar infested cheek and scorched ear. She didn't look like much but reputation preceded her within the commision. There was always a weapon with this one, hiding them wherever there was space. Every occasion calls for its own toy was her motto. Next to her was a taller body, wearing one of the commission's provided masks. Five never was a big fan of these theatrics, though they had proven effective for other agents. This particular one was wearing a rabbitshead, like he was the fucking easter bunny. Hands folded neatly in front of him the bunny-man waited patiently with his partner, seemingly unaffected by the local temperature.

After a long, exhausting and especially frustrating walk the prepubescent hitman arrived at the diner with his welcome committee. His eyes fell on the strange briefcase they carried. It was definitely provided by the Commission, though this one had a giant white X symbol on each side. It was unlike any Five had seen before. "Well then,--shall we?" He suggested while walking past both suits, entering the diner.
Inside the establishment it had an american 50's theme, a jukebox was filling the empty restaurant with tunes. The seats were red and white leather-coated. But the best thing of it all, it had air conditioning. Five let out a sigh of relief as the cool air caressed his skin.

Both agents followed his lead and entered behind the boy, heading straight for the centre round table holding exactly three seats. The scraping sound of two chairs being dragged over the stone tiles made Five's skin crawl. "Jesus..didn't your mother ever teach you to lift the damn seat?" The assassin asked, pulling his own seat back in a more civil manner. He took his seat and folded his hands in front of him, leaning on the table. A moment of silence followed together with questionable eye contact, “Well?”

From behind the bunny mask a deep yet soft voice started explaining the matter, “You have been causing the commission a lot of problems old man.” The masked man started. “It became clear you’re a stain that no amount of cleaning will get rid of. Therefore the higher ups have decided to choose relocation instead of extermination." Five took the news rather lightly, grinned and wondered,"What is to keep me from walking out this door and taking a plane back from whatever country you dumped me in?"

The female agent chuckled, "You have no idea where you are, do you?"

"Egypt? Iraq? Any country with a dessert? It doesn't really matter now does it?" Five was confident this futile attempt to separate him from his family was nothing more but another way for the commission to take him off the board.

"You're wrong." Stated the deep voice from behind the mask. "A few years back one of our people in R&A was looking for a more effective way to use the briefcases. During the preliminary testing phase one of our forced voluntary candidates ended up in a different location instead of a different era. He made his way here, to the crossroads. A new discovery which only a select few know about.” The agent straightened his back, cracking his spine rather loud. “You see old man, you're a long way from home."

The unsettling words started to make Five a bit nervous, an emotion he tried his best not to show to the commission goons. "The crossroads?" He inquired.

"A place somewhere in our galaxy, we're not exactly sure where it’s located ourselves. What we do know is that it’s impossible to escape this solar system. Unless of course…" Tapping his briefcase the agent sent a strong message that made Five experience a hint of discomfort.

The sudden sound of shattering glass evicted the silence from the room. Blood coloured the table red as it flooded from the female representative’s head which bursted open and dropped lifeless on the table.

“WHAT THE?!”

A second, third and fourth shot pierced the man’s chest in front of Five’s eyes. The massive body thumbed when hitting the ground. Without a moment's hesitation the prepubescant hitman instinctively ducked for cover in one of the booths on the side. He glanced towards the two bodies, lifeless on the cold stone floor. Their pool of blood is spreading across the tiles. The adrenaline courses through Five’s veins, his breathing turning heavy. He smeared the traces of warm blood across his cheek in a futile attempt to wipe them off.

With great care he peeks over the bench of the booth, trying to get a glimpse of who or what just attacked them. From the dunes he notices the shim of a humanoid walking towards the establishment, seemingly not in a hurry. Five squinted his eyes, making out a face from this distance was nearly impossible. A flash of blue surrounded the shady figure and it disappeared from sight. The boy’s eyes darted left and right, “You gotta be kidding me”

Uneasy and worried Five looked around. He could feel the sweat drops rolling down his back. The hairs on his arm empowered the ominous feeling which he was already experiencing. An unexplainable itch started to take over his body. Uncontrollable sweat, itchy body, “You gotta be kidding me.” The boy exclaimed as he got out from behind his cover. He knows what these symptoms mean. Two of the seven symptoms of paradox psychosis were clear as day, which could only mean one thing.

“Don’t worry, this won’t take long.” A too familiar voice was heard from behind the counter, where Five in fact saw himself. A many years older version of himself was casually making himself a coffee. A strange looking rifle was strapped over his shoulder. His clothes, clean, neat and exhibited a strange new sense of fashion. The machine grinded and stirred,before it produced a cup of coffee. The older Five lifted the cup, smelled it while producing the obligatory, ”hmmm.”

“Wait, how are you here?” The boy asked as he circled around the pool of blood on the ground. Completely ignoring the two bodies that were just put down. “You know we can’t be here together, matter of fact, I don’t recall being here before.”

“That’s because you haven’t, yet. And I hope by doing this you never will. You see, I have been stuck here for quite some time, trying to find a way back to the family. And -” He tapped the briefcase he managed to pick up from the commission agents, “I finally found it.”

“So what they said earlier was true? This, so-called crossroad place is actually a real thing?” Saying the words out loud left Five more nervous than he would like. But he did not plan on staying. Five grasped the space around him, tore through space and aimed to blip behind the counter, using his teleporting skills to take the briefcase from his future self. He emerged on the other side and was met with a nasty backhand, smacking him onto the floor.

“Listen boy, I know how you operate, don’t forget, I am you. So don’t try these small plays with me. I've spent 43 years here in the crossroads, seen and done things you can’t even imagine. Found so many new ways to kill, even mastered these abilities we got. But now, I’m done, I finally found a way out and I'm taking it. But I am not dumb enough to screw myself over.” The older Five made a hand motion towards the door and an elderly, well dressed gentleman walked into the establishment, ringing the bell hanging above the door.

A British accent was produced but the new arrival’s tongue, “Sir, we must get going. The event will start soon, all contestants are required to be there on time.” A butler looking man said to future Five.

“Alright, what is going on here? I am going to need some answers. Who are you?” He asked his future self who in turn ignored Five’s entire presence before continuing his own conversation with the elderly gentlemen.

“Hello? Can you atleast answer me?” Five pressed with a slightly annoyed tone before muttering underneath his breath, “I’ve turned into such an asshole.”

Future Five grinned, “We’ve always had a certain way with people.”

“Sir? I’m rather pressed for time.”

“Yes yes, of course. But before we leave. Does the organisation recognise that me and him are the same person yet taken from different points in time?” The British gentlemen’s eyes went from Future Five to the younger self, took a brief moment and nodded, “Yes, we do.”

“Good, then it’s all settled. I can actually put myself on the right path.” Future Five said as he displayed the most satisfied grin.

The young Umbrella student felt uneasy, a chill found his way through his spine. He knew himself better than anyone. What was to come couldn’t be anything good. A number of possible scenarios rushed through his mind, trying to puzzle the pieces together. It got interrupted by a brief moment of eye contact with his Future self, “Look kid, this place is crazy, everything works a little different here. It took me 43 years before figuring out how to return to this point in time. During these years I was forced to adapt, like we did during the apocalypse. But don’t worry, you’ll get it. You -are- me afterall.”

A glance towards the recruiter changed the time traveller’s tone. “Be careful, some of those bastards competing with you fight dirty. Watch your back. Oh and try to get out faster than I did okay?” With his words barely fading, and a grin on his face a bright red flash filled the room, forcing the Umbrella student to shut his eyes. When they reopened, his future self was gone, the briefcase was gone and there was a butler looking weirdo staring at him.

“What?” The confused Five said.

“Young Sir, it’s time. We must be going now, contracts have been signed, deals have been made. You owe my employer a show.”

“Listen here you senile old goat, I made no deals, signed no contracts, I am probably older than you so leave the ‘young Sir’ remarks, I have no idea what kind of shitshow this is but I ain’t going anywhere before I get some answers.” The boy hissed.

The registration officer let out a long deep sigh while reaching into his deep pockets from which he revealed a small device with just a singular red button, “Apologies Sir, but it’s time.”

The ominous red button got pressed, a bright light appeared, blinding Number Five once more forcing his eyes shut.

When opening his eyes again he found himself in a big unknown hall, red carpet, strange individuals which he had never seen before and a big lens being shoved in his face with a high pitched voice to back it up, “Oh-My-God, A new contender, so who are you?!”
 

King Ghidorah

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A lot of people think that sand doesn’t have a smell. Those people have never been to Mesa Roja, and might possibly pay cash money to discover how wrong they were.

Chaos Agent Rory (an title that he objected to in the strongest possible terms whenever he meet anyone who knew he held it) reflected on this as he did his very best to hunker down lower in his nest atop the dunes. With him in his little rock-lined bolt-hole he had a packet of dehydrated fish-sticks, a fanny-pack filled with a shocking array of useful devices, and a remote with a big red button on it.

He’d done a decent job of concealing himself in spite of his handicaps: penguins are not natural diggers, and King Penguins in particular don’t build nests.

Below him, picking over the burnt-out and still-smoking wreck of a pick-up truck mounted on tank treads, a group of burly, heavily armed men wearing women’s clothing were shouting at each other. The way the wind was blowing, and with the lip of his hidey-hole in the way, Rory couldn’t make out what they were saying; he could guess though; And, to pass the time while he waited for them to either leave stand about - he sneaked a peek at his pursuers, eyeballing distance - three meters to the left of their current position, he did.

“Golly gee D00ds,” the dapper little creature muttered, ”that Rory sure is a swell a guy for letting us in on this once in a lifetime business opportunity.”

“Yeah Mang,” he replied, affecting a slightly different voice, “we sure are a bunch of douchegantry fuckbuckets for chasing him into the desert and blowing up his sweet ride.”

“Yeah, how was he supposed to know the guys he traded our water-supply to in exchange for energy-drinks weren’t on the level?”

Below, the largest of the men, a bearded goliath wearing a ragged paisley sundress and toting a massive grenade launcher on a strap across his back, picked one of his compatriots up by the garters and, practically frothing with rage, began to shake him as though he thought he was filled with candy.

Rory continued his whispered narration.

“And it was only sound business practice that he’d already bartered the energy drinks for guns. Which he took before he had the energy drinks. Sound business.”

“ Yeah D00d. Sound business.”

“Not his fault. I mean, if we’d just stopped to listen to the rest of his plan we wouldn’t be nearly this upset.”

“We’re the jerks here, Mang. We should probably leave.”

Rory nodded, approving of his one-man (or flightless bird, as the case may be) skit. It wasn’t his fault.

A voice beside him cleared its throat.

“You know there are three other heavily armed groups out here and they’re all looking for you?

Abruptly, Rory had a broken beer-bottle in his grasp, gripped fast to his flipper by miniature tentacles and fine cilia emerging from beneath the fine waterproof plumage. He wheeled upon the new arrival, waving it threateningly.

“Yeah Mang. People out here are impatient – they just can’t appreciate a good investment. Now if you’re with the law, the church, the post office, the bank, Syntech, the Pilots Union….”

The put-upon penguin paused to breathe.

“…. The Hub, the Rock Raiders, or anyone looking for Special Liaison Gregory, then you best just keep walking D00d. I don’t know that guy, and I’m having a really bad day.”

He lowered the bottle slightly, now actually appraising the person he was talking to – as it turned out, a bald little green man with exaggerated features, pointed yellow teeth, and an impeccably tailored suit.

The wind changed direction, kicking a cloud of fine white sand over the lip of the miniature foxhole and into their faces.

“As luck would have it,” the goblin said, enunciating flawlessly in cultured tones and wiping his eyes with a handkerchief, “I’m looking for you, actually. Whoever you are. My employer thinks we can do business.”

“One second Mang,” said Rory, peeking over the lip. “Got ‘em!”

He pounced on the little remote. An explosion shook the dunes, half burying both bird and business-goblin in sand. Burnt paisley tatters drifted on the wind beneath a cloudless blue sky.

Rory sneezed, hauling himself out of the foxhole and adjusting his fanny-pack.

“Aw, D00d,” he said, crestfallen, “Lost my fish-sticks. Anywho. What’s this about business? Let’s talk like professionals, D00d.”

The goblin grimaced, dusting himself off as best he could. He’d just had his suit dry-cleaned, and he was regretting selecting the wool blend for this climate.

“As I was saying, I am a recruiter for the Death Ga-“

“I’m in.”

The goblin paused. The smells of blood and burnt polyester whipped past on the breeze, gone as quickly as it had come.

“Usually there is a bit more persuading involved.”

Rory began to groom himself, sticking his long black bill in a hard-to-reach place and shaking his flipper at a strange angle as he picked sand out of his tuxedo-pattern blue-grey coat.

“Death Game is showbusiness, D00d! That’s where the real-people money is. Think of the endorsements! The groupies! The deals! I could stop running my legitimate enterprises out of the back of beat-up halftracks and other-people’s sheds!”

“But… you could die. I understand it is frequently incredibly painful.”

The penguin straightened up and shrugged, shaking sand off of one of his webbed feet. “Eh.”

The goblin shrugged back. He pressed a finger to the side of his jaw, just below his ear.

“This is Recruiter 202. Two to beam out please; The flightless bird said yes.”
 

Eddie the Head

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Starting appearance:
https://www.deviantart.com/xpendable/art/Stranger-in-a-Strange-Land-414228790 (Shoutout/credit to expendable on DA)

https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/fi/8/80/Stranger_in_a_Strange_Land_12.jpg

This entails a sprawling umber trench coat, the shadow of determination cast by his stetson. Cybernetics infused with bands of taught flesh, with some weapons underneath. Glowing red electric eye. With this, he’s got a bit of a bounty hunter thing going on.


Fearful disembodied fingers had simply pointed in this direction, and he had followed deliberately. He breathed in fate’s cruel scent and embraced its unforgiving and wretched stench.

An inhuman smile crawled across the inanimate corpse’s face as his eyes, blackened pits of true abyss, swept the room in search of truly formidable prey to sacrifice. The ultimate bounty. One that could not be put into words.

In this form, he was nearly as cognizant as a man. His want remained painted in still-steaming blood as his tall and sprawling silhouette stepped foot inside, the doorframe above him echoing with the metallic hurl of fowlers on hardwood. They sounded like a splash of coin, much like payment those who often took this form would seek.

His appearance at a glance was that of cold steel fused with unfeeling flesh and bone. Upon his shadow-covered face, lay contorted marbled skin. With him, he dragged in the weighty expression of perpetual certainty. Ferocity crackled around his unyielding, twisted gaze.

Beneath his visage rested the snarling expression fused with a crazed animalistic thirst of an apex predator. He would never find a match for the monster within. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t follow his compass. Click, click. The thickening scent grew more rancid.

The laser of his cybernetic eye beamed across the room. Analyzing with a ping of computation. A shame, in this room there was not even a soul worth ravaging. The creature’s form loomed, stoic and haunting while the wave of his umber trench coat fluttered above his heels riding an incorporeal darkness matching the same wave he rode in on.

Only the ungodly would approach him.

“And you are?” A chirping voice hummed against Eddie like a tune.

The harmonious timber fell against his face, his malevolent aura splattering the dashed notes of charm scattering them with a cacophony of unease. Vapid eyes that corralled all souls leaned into the newbie, pressing millimeters from the imparting polished flesh of the youthful, unsuspecting salesman. Just how eager was this mortal to sell his soul?

Eddie’s ghoulishly carved face emanated an aroma of mangled flesh as he released an immense exhale from the noseless slits of his face as steam bellowed into the youth’s watering eyes. Sulfuric smoke wreathed inside the pores of his nose like pools of gaseous acid, when the boy could no longer take the burning, the mortal stepped away with a hesitant stumble.

The youth tripped on his own ankles and felt his body clatter to the ground. Yet he did not fight the sensation as fear had fused with the chill of his spine. Confusion flickering within the cowardice of his mind as he could not think clearly. Instinct had overtaken him. Danger tingled in his senses and clouded his judgment. Trepidation for his life, fear for his soul. No matter his mind’s will, all the youth could control was his body’s need for survival which had become an involuntary action of self-preservation. His body visibly quivered as he gasped. Seeking breath. Seeking relief. Simple things to fill the trauma of this lifeblood’s cup.

The tainted heir of the perceived bounty hunter was too much. It took the youth but seconds to bow down to the blackened eyes seeking all to be undone. Upon the floor, heels of his ankles pressing in. His eyes slunk to the floorboards and the demon’s gaze went unmet yet again. There was a victorious smile on Eddie’s unmoving lips.

Before the revenant of death, the small human appeared defenseless and weak. With nothing mightier than a pen in his hand. This underwhelming cowardice was not the least bit satisfying. Shivering mortals were utterly useless, even as prey. This pittance of a soul would not sate Eddie’s undying craving. Saliva pooled in Ed’s mouth and wet the end of his torched cigar.

The mummified bounty hunter scoffed, “Tch.” A lack of satisfaction was the blight of this demon. Eddie’s voice, laden with an English twang, sneered quickly, “Careful now, I hear insanity is quite catching. Best you run along.” A few mere moments longer… Ah well. These moments were not destined to be.

Eddie spat nothing more at the cowering boy who was not a target as his jaw went undone, a lipless maw chewing on wicked tobacco.

The bitter creature lumbered on, drawn to the dark corners of the room whether he was aware of this or not. Eddie was not one to waste his time. His mantle feathered by the wind of his stride as he continued on his endless road. He checked his watch. Two minutes until… Hmmm.

Beneath the shadow lay a jagged grin, awaiting harvest.
 

King Ghidorah

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Rory opened his eyes to find himself… still in the desert, only now he was standing on top of a platform of broken and weathered black sandstone, the crown of a crumbling pyramid half-submerged beneath an expanse of cracked and sunbaked red earth, barren wasteland stretching very nearly to the horizon.

To his right, glaringly out of placed on the ancient edifice, there was an overstuffed leather armchair. In front of him was a weathered, plain-looking woman in cargo pants and a tank-top with a bulky, ruggedized camera/microphone rig slung over her shoulder. Behind her was a shining chrome disc inscribed with faintly mechanical-looking engrams, which Rory recognized of old as some kind of teleport platform.

The penguin raised a flipper and waved at the camera.

“ ’sup D00d.”

The well-dressed goblin appeared beside him in flash of white light and, without missing a beat, clapped a scraggly green hand on his back.

“If you will have a seat please, we can begin the intake interview.”

Rory looked at the chair. He waddled over to it. The seat came up to his chest. He considered it a moment, then turned to look at the camera. “Can I, like, get a step-stool or something?”

The goblin sighed. Without waiting for a response, Rory used his flippers to hoist himself up onto the seat and, with a certain amount of awkward wiggling, kicking feet, and ruffled plumage, nestled down in the chair.

“Whup. Erk! Mmp... Never mind! I got it. But that was some anthropocentric bullshit, D00d. We’re still good though, so let’s get this show on the road, yeah?”

The wind changed direction, howling around peak of the ancient ruin. The camera-person adjusted something on the side of their rig and gave a thumbs up.

“Quite,” said the goblin. “Now, to start, would you tell us a little bit about yourself, for the fans at home?”

Rory blinked several times. “Sure. Yeah, I can do that.”

He shifted his weight, gesturing with his flippers as he talked.

“Well, I go by Rory these days, and I’m a businessperson. The go-to-guy, see? If you need something, I can get it for you, and if you’re selling something, I can get you a really great deal. Just like, scads of dosh, D00d. Scads! I’ve done business with practically everybody who’s anybody, anywhere. Fast talk and big money, D00d. That’s me!”

As he talked, the bird grew visibly more pleased with himself, back straight and beak rising.

“So would you say you’re successful, then, in your chosen field?” asked the goblin.

Rory made eye-contact with the camera. “Absolutely. Why? What’ve you heard, mang?”

The goblin waved off the question. “Oh, nothing, nothing. We are merely trying to get to know you is all. So tell us, where do you hail from originally?”

Rory’s eyes widened, and while he didn’t droop, a mantle of tension slid over him in that way that only cats and nervous birds can manage. “That’s an awfully personal question, mang. But I can answer it. For the fans, y’know? I’m from Austroavia: Not a Crossroads native. But that was a looong time ago and, like, you can’t get there from here.”

Far off on the horizon, a forked tongue of bright orange heat-lightning split the sky. The wind blew in gusts around the little film-set, carrying shifting coils of red dust. A scent of salt and ozone practically sizzled in the air.

“….yyyyyyyyup. Long time ago. And its not that interesting anyway.”

The goblin nodded, clasping his hands behind his back. Finding real information about Rory had actually been tremendously challenging – the bird had left a shockingly quiet trail of bloodshed, catastrophic mechanical failure, fraud, tax evasion and apocalyptically furious business-partners across half the crossroads, but he didn’t actually seem to have a personal life at all, and his origins were a mystery. However, the recruiter wasn’t paid to be curious.

“I see. Well, I’m sure we wouldn’t want to bore our viewers. Are you excited to participate in the Death Game, then?”

That perked Rory right up. He placed his flippers on the arms of the chair and stood on the seat, leaning forward and nodding vigorously. “Oh, you know it D00d. The exposure alone! This thing is gonna make me a mint!”

“Have you killed anyone before?”

The bird sat back, staring at the sky. “In a very general sense, D00d. Like, nobody specifically in any specific legal jurisdiction or anything. But there may have been some like, generally murder-type self-defense activities.”

He raised a flipper and picked at something underneath it with his beak in a momentary frenzy of nervous grooming, then settled the ruffled plumage and peered fixedly into the camera.

“Allegedly.”

“Of course. And you aren’t worried about dying yourself?”

“Eh. I got insurance.”

“Excellent. Well then, Rory – welcome to the Death Game.”

The goblin turned to the cameraperson and made a cutting gesture across his own neck with one hand as he made to approach the armchair. In the distance, thunder rolled.

“I’m sure our viewers wish you all the best in the coming contest. Now, if you’ll just come over here and step on this platform…”
 
Last edited:

Dr. McNinja

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Peter sighed as Dr. McNinja frantically threw apart his office in frustration. Chairs were scattered into shards and papers were strewn about.

Dr. McNinja had just gone off the phone with one of Death Game’s representatives. Apparently, they were calling in their favor.*

*EN: McNinja fans, read Most Prized Asset!*

"You asked them for a favor, Doc," Peter insisted, "And I want to do it."

Doc angrily pointed a finger at Peter. "No. I'll go."

"They asked for me specifically.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “No, really? It’s called the Death Game.”

Doc sighed. Peter leaned in.

“Plus, they have info on the Punisher Toad.”

Dr. McNinja’s eyebrows raised. “Well, that’s interesting.”

“Yeah.” Peter nodded. “So you’ll let me go?”

“No.”

Peter sighed exasperatedly. “Why not?”

Dr. McNinja crossed his arms. “Daisy would kill me.”

“Daisy already said yes.”

“She said what.”

Peter shrugged. “Listen, she’s already okay with me being a vampire vigilante, risking my life looking for a psychotic mushroom man. Of course she’s okay with this.”

“Hey, vigilanteism is different- Wait, how long have you been a vampire vigilante?”

Peter scoffed. “I can just send in a clone! A sight more responsible than what you did.”

“You can’t just send in a clone-” Doc paused. “You could just send in a clone.”

Peter nodded.

Doc looked around in horror. “I could have just sent in a clone for Dante’s Abyss.

Peter nodded.

Dr. McNinja clapped his hands together. “Alright! Let’s get you hooked up. Never made a vampire clone before, so this should be interesting!”

***

Peter(‘s clone) nodded. “Yes, I have my guardian’s approval. Here.”

Peter passed the man in the sign-up booth a slip of paper. It was scrawled on with chicken scratch handwriting.

“Shitty handwriting.”

“He’s a doctor.”

“Ah.” The man lazily waved at the teleporter behind him. “Go through there. Follow the line until you get to the counter, then… you’ll see.”

Peter raised a brow. Whatever. He entered the teleporter, waiting for the worst.
 

The Chorus

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Data. Glorious data. It funneled through them like blood, breathing new understanding and familiarisation with the world as it had become. The Chorus had nothing to compare it to, knowing only that they existed long before the current age and nothing else. Now, as pentabytes of information flooded their memory banks, they rapidly pieced together the planet titled Cevanti, its capital of Markov, and the vast galaxy of the Crossroads surrounding it.

The Chorus focused intently on hints to its creation, however they may be gleaned. A new piece of information may link to another already stored. From there a web of connections could be established, leading credence to theories of where they came from and maybe even what they were.

There was little discussion in the meantime. Once the information was encoded into their data banks, every member of The Chorus instantly knew it and could recall it without forgetting. It was as if one moment they didn’t know the planet was named Cevanti by the inhabitants and the next it had been general knowledge for years.

From even the unencrypted channels it was clear the planet’s population in general, which seemed to be composed of many humanoid races, believed in a historic event in the planet’s past: The End. What caused it had not been conclusively discovered or agreed upon, and why it happened or why it stopped was left just as murky.

[The End…] the Conductor of Archives said. [This event, though most definitely a designation given well after it finished, may align with some data we have regarding our past. However we cannot say with any surety how it may do so. We will continue to process this data.]

[Noted], the Voice of the Chorus said.

The droid’s optics observed a humanoid droid approach them, somehow spotting them in their hiding spot between the trees. All voices experienced the stimuli that the droid could process simultaneously; as the same as their memory, all voices saw the same thing.

The unfamiliar robot stopped outside the boundary of the copse of trees and spoke in a toneless voice. “Hello, The Chorus.”

[This stranger knows our collective name,] the Conductor of Diplomacy said. [How is this possible? We have existed in this state for a mere hour, 14 minutes and 29 seconds.]

[It may have been through our connection to Cevanti’s wireless networks,] the Conductor of Progress said. [We knew it was a risk. Perhaps the beings of this planet are more advanced than we first recognised.]

[We propose that we attack,] the Conductor of Conflict said. [We require a trial run to test this shell’s combat abilities. If we are already under threat, this is a good opportunity.]

[Best that we speak with the being first,] Diplomacy said. [We may find a more favourable outcome. They may wish something more of us, considering they did not attack already. We may be able to benefit further.]

[We are inclined to agree,] Archives said. [We are still collating data. This being may provide novel or rare data we have not discovered.]

[Yes, let’s!] the Conductor of Morality said, the response laced with static.

[Choir of Conflict, do you agree with the consensus?] the Voice of the Chorus asked.

[We do,] Conflict said. [However, we reserve the right to raise the option of attack again should things prove hostile.]

[Noted. Let us interact with this Cevantian,] the Voice said.

“Hello,” The Chorus said. This was the first time the collective audibly spoke – all conversations previous to this had happened internally. The voice also lacked tonal variety.

“You may be curious as to how and why I have singled you out,” the robot said in monotone.

[In the interests of protecting ourselves, we should give as little information away as possible,] Diplomacy said.

The rest of The Chorus agreed.

“Yes,” The Chorus said.

“We noticed your connection due to the large amount of bandwidth you have been absorbing,” the robot said. “We are always watching everywhere, and we know about your exploits.”

“We have done nothing worthy of notice,” The Chorus said.

“We know you were in control of a colossal war machine, and defeated by the Saiyan Orion,” the robot continued. “What became of you afterwards is a mystery, but we know that you are the same being that walked the wilds only a few months ago.”

[How could that be discovered?] the Voice asked.

[Uncertain, but our best hypothesis is that some unique identifier remains with us in this state that we possessed while we were deranged,] Progress said. [Through our connection to Cevanti’s networks, we somehow exposed this, and it was picked up by this robot, or its master.]

[We are concerned,] Diplomacy said. [We must tread carefully.]

“Why have you sought us out?” The Chorus said.

“Please accept my incoming connection,” the robot said. “The data can be uploaded to you instantaneously.”

The Chorus internally agreed to proceed, but with caution. The Choir of Progress remained vigilant, prepared for any hacking attempts or virus uploads.

However the apprehension was misplaced. The robot streamed information on a competition known as the Carnivale Rosa, a battle royale to the death of the participants. Rewards were valuable, especially for an AI collective on the run.

“So, would you like to join?” the robot asked.

[This is risky,] Diplomacy said. [We have only just earned our freedom. If we are unsuccessful, we will cease to exist.]

[It is an exciting prospect to test our combat functionality,] Conflict said. [Even if this droid is not built for battle. Furthermore, the contestants themselves may provide excellent data on other lifeforms in this Crossroads, and further broaden our horizons.]

[We agree with the Choir of Conflict,] the Conductor of Progress said. [There is a wealth of data awaiting us in this competition, regardless of our positioning at its conclusion. To address the Choir of Diplomacy’s concern, many of Cevanti’s digital protection methods are incapable of standing up to our advanced technological prowess. We can take command of a remote server and upload ourselves into it should this droid be made inactive. Indeed, with the resources we will gain regardless of our placement, we may be able to improve ourselves further.]

[Death…] the Conductor of Morality rasped. [We see the need… no objections. Too promising.]

[More information, some potentially unique and inaccessible otherwise, will likely be available during the contest,] Archives said. [More chances at finding the right key to the lock that will reveal our lost past. The Choir of Archives assents.]

[Choir of Diplomacy?] the Voice prompted.

[The Choir of Progress has provided a sufficient solution to our concern,] the Conductor said. [We are also in favour.]

“Yes,” The Chorus said. “We shall join the Carnivale Rosa.”

“Excellent,” the robot said. “To expedite your application, please respond to the following questions.”

The robot sent a number of questions through the data channel. They asked their history, abilities, and a number of other statistics. The Chorus united in discussing and providing responses as veiled and sparse as possible before sending the data back.

“Data received,” the robot said. “Please follow me and I shall escort you to the nearest teleporter, where you will be brought into the staging area.”

The Chorus followed behind, ready to lose nothing and gain everything.
 

Lilith

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It was business as usual for the WYVERN Captain and Second-in-Command aboard the Dreadnought. Ridley, atop his throne, exchanging brusque words with various important figures related to his interplanetary operations. Lilith, flipping between idolizing her boss, tapping listlessly at her phone, and harassing the alien crab guys stationed in the control room. The relative tranquility didn't last long, however.

Knock knock

A crimson-skinned lady in formal business attire waltzed past the giant door leading to the ship's helm, alerting the crew to her presence as a small gesture of politeness to offset her unannounced intrusion.

“Hiya Lilith, I'm Lucy, I'm sure you know why I'm here so if ya don't mind I'll be taking you straight to De—”

“Oh shit is it that time of the year already?” The sadist paused her over-the-shoulder inspection of a Zebesian, who she made absolutely certain was doing their job correctly. “Well I gueeeeeess I can spare the time. But I'm not coming willingly. You'll have to force me.”

Lucy embraced the challenge. “That can be arranged.” She pulled a cable taut between her fists, an assortment of bondage gear materializing around her waist. Her razor-tipped tail peeked out from her skirt, swaying side to side in anticipation.

Lilith stretched out her arms, inviting the demon girl to give it their all. “Don't hold back on me– unf!” She could hardly react to the red blur speeding behind her as she was pinned on her stomach. “I think you can be a little rougher than that– Hnff, now we're talkin...” she purred, feeling her wrists restrained by a hefty set of chains.

Ridley couldn't be more enthused about the prospect of his head enforcer taking a vacation far away from him. Although given recent events, he wouldn't pass on the opportunity to bolster his ranks. “Familiarize yourself with our new Officer. And be the symbol of WYVERN's power.”

“Understood, Master! I'll welcome him with a nice mmhbbmmff!” Thankfully the dragon didn't endure the rest of Lilith's prattle as she was ball-gagged by the succubus.

“Shshsh…” Lucy leaned down as she straddled Lilith's backside, greatly enjoying the situation. “Worry not, Pirate King Ridley. We'll take good care of your pet.”

The tyrant of the stars snarled at the defamatory remark, but otherwise bid the recruiter farewell.

Lucy had tied up her 'captive' in an excessive amount of ropes, zip ties, cuffs, and shackles, all within the span of seconds. A professional, clearly. When the smaller woman was finally satisfied with her handiwork, Lilith looked like she had been attacked by an amalgamation of hardware store supplies trying to assimilate her into its impossible-to-untangle mass. “Mmnnhh hnnfff, ghhhhfff!!~” Nylon, jute, and metal fetters constricted every inch of her body, the combination of composite materials abrading her skin and wringing out a melody of muffled moans.

It wasn't extreme per se. Anything less would be mundane.

Tracing a runic sigil in the air, Lucy summoned a shimmering rift before hauling the manacled giantess away.

Crrrrrlink.

Lilith hadn't been dragged very far, but she sensed the abrupt fluctuation in the atmosphere. The room reeked of ancient rust, noxious decay, and industrial dregs. The mystery of her new location was soon unveiled, as the demon girl announced, “Alright, you can come out now!”

At first the masochist refused, but she had a hunch where this was going, so she emerged from the cocoon of restraints, thrilled by the sight of the derelict cellar. “Ohhoh my, this is just like one of my old dungeons! The underground floor of an abandoned factory, the torture devices in every corner, the mood lighting in the center… How'd you do all this?”

“It was a bit… uniquely difficult scouring for information about your previous world. However, all those lairs you left behind were a huge help to our research. The Carnivale crafted this to match your preferences and aesthetics. Same goes for your outfit.” Lucy eagerly presented the revealing dress, staring with passionate enthusiasm as Lilith slipped it on.

“Mph… it's tight. I like it.” Lilith tugged at the leather body harness, causing a satisfying snap. The black straps squeeze and outline her thighs, hips, waist, rear, abs, and chest, bringing attention to all of her best assets. The straps on her breasts form a Y shape, going between her cleavage and splitting at the top. The bands curving along her V-line stop just before they expose anything too risqué. In place of the standard collar, she wears a choker. As for her nipples, an X is taped over each, areolas fitting perfectly in the cross section. Tailored to her tastes indeed.

“We hope it will serve you well in Death Game, and long after its conclusion.” Lucy couldn't hide the excitement swelling within her.

“Ya know, I just might.” Lilith beamed a lecherous grin. “So… I'm assuming you didn't bring me out here for nothing.”

“Oh right, of course, the interview! We'll get started right away. Feel free to set up while you answer the first question. And uh… there's no rule against harming staff outside the event.”

“I'm well aware.” Lilith gathered a bundle of cords in preparation.

“What's your involvement in WYVERN?”

“I'm the Head Enforcer, 2nd only to Master Ridley!” proclaimed Lilith, confidence exuding. Tying up the limbs of the succubus and raising them off the floor, she continued, “When Master needs muscle, I supply. The weapons heist in Arcadia, for example. After seeing what I did in Nausicaa, he couldn't resist taking me under his wing~” As she swooned over the dragon, she stripped the demon girl in a swift flourish.

“Aahh, fascinating. How was your experience in Dante's Abyss?”

“Nice tattoo.” Lilith pointed to the hot pink swirling insignia on Lucy's lower stomach. Definitely a libido enchantment. “I did better than expected I suppose.” She winded up a riding crop.

SMACK!

The dominatrix followed up by positioning a sizeable vibrating object between the succubus's legs.

vrvrvrvrvrvrvr…

“The results don't mean much anyways. All that matters is impressing Master.”

“M-mhh, yes.” Lucy felt her skin turn a deep shade of maroon. “This one's more for the audience. Can you share some of your expertise in curses?”

“Sure, I don't see why not.” Lilith procured a pair of jumper cables.

bzzzzzZZZAP!

“A lot of things people associate with curses used to be completely ordinary. Take Latin for example. There's nothing actually thaumaturgical about it. But because enough people believe it has occult properties, reality shifts to make that true.”

“Aiyi- in- insightful. Can you tell me about an adventure from before you were in the Crossroads?”

“Hmmmm. Nope, I'm keeping those to myself at the moment.”

Lucy seemed dejected but understood. “Then shall I send you to the staging area?”

“Aw, but I haven't finished with you yet,” Lilith protested, despite having full control.

“N-no problem! Take as much time as you need.” The demon girl was yearning to satiate the sadist's desires.

“That's what I like to hear.” Lilith brandished a scalpel, leering at the nude succubus like a blank canvas. A tantalizing prelude to the main event.
 
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