DGS3 -- Day 1, Phase 1

[The Man in Red]

This...was not how things were supposed to go.

As he sat in the relative darkness of the command room, lit only by the glow of the vast wall of monitors and displays for the island he had painstakingly prepared -- he always had had a love for the unnecessarily dramatic, and had yet to turn the actual lights in the room on -- the Man in Red was suffering through an incredibly unfortunate situation and turn of events.

They had everything set and ready to go, just a short time ago. The press of a few buttons, and they could have started sending people down to the island with their gear to commence the coming bloodbath. They could have started tearing the carefully-constructed and planned façade down brick by brick with dead zones scattered seemingly at random. They could have sat back and simply monitored the events, enjoyed the show, and only worried about managing the required input every few hours. It would have been easy, like it always was.

Like it was supposed to be.

Now, though... Now he was beset by a troubling turn of events.

Whatever that thing was that Vater had called him about, it was out there. They were out there, for there was more than one. The unidentified signals had been tracked and marked, at least; unknown or not, they could at least be tracked now. There weren't many that would be much of a problem...with the supplies and equipment prepared for this game, and the gathered crowd of contestants, most of them would be more than able to hold their own and avert any unnecessary catastrophes.

Behind his mask, the scarlet showman frowned and seethed bitterly. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. This wasn't his show anymore.

"Sir?" One of the staff tentatively spoke up. "It's almost time to start. Are...are we going to cancel?"

"Cancel...?" he murmured. With the unforeseen events which had cropped up, yes, that would perhaps be for the best. Things were entirely off the rails now, that much was for sure, and the value of this show couldn't be guaranteed any longer. But...as the Man in Red lifted his gaze to the bank of monitors again, staring at the island as the waters around it frothed and burbled noxiously, steaming unpleasantly with oily purple fumes....he set his jaw. "....no."

And slowly, he rose from his seat. A snap of his fingers and the lights in the room flickered on. "No, number seven. We will not cancel. We will proceed exactly as planned!"

"Ah...y-yes, sir." The fresh round of murmuring that went through the room announced that no one thought this was a good idea, but none of them were really willing to argue about it, either. Reluctantly, they all shuffled about and took their places at respective desks and monitoring stations and computers, beginning prep work to get the event underway.

"Despite these setbacks and unplanned events...it won't change the end result." The Man in Red's eyes gleamed as he focused his gaze on a particular screen, showing one of the disgusting interlopers on his island. "This was meant to be as much a test as it was a show. And though it has escaped the initial bounds and parameters we had in mind for such a test...a test it will still be. All the more authentic, without the veneer and false pretenses of it all being staged hovering over it any longer."

"We don't need to control every aspect..." he went on, more quietly and his tone dropping to a far more cold, serious one. "We simply need to observe and broadcast it to anyone watching. And be prepared to clean up the aftermath. Just like always."

"....yes, sir." The agreement was still less than enthusiastic, but at least the atmosphere of overbearing nervousness and reluctance eased off as work began to pick up.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~​

"Ahem..." the Man in Red's voice broadcast through the Barracks. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen and assorted entities in attendance. The time to begin our little game has arrived at last. You have approximately..." He paused for dramatic effect, as if checking his watch. "....a few minutes to make any last-minute scrambling preparations you need to. When you are ready, kindly make your way to room zero at the end of the Barracks, which is now open to you all. Take the teleporter there one at a time to arrive at the stage for our little show."

"....I hope I don't have to stress how important 'one at a time' is, here. We don't have the funds to pay lawyer fees and royalties to mister Goldblum if there are any accidents." He cleared his throat. "Please make sure you do so in the next, oh...five minutes. Otherwise we will be forced to trigger a manual jump courtesy of a beacon in your suppression equipment, and that ride will lead to a far less pleasant arrival, I assure you."

"And do keep in mind: things are dangerous down there. You don't just need to watch out for each other. There have been some...unexpected developments in the days leading up to this little scuffle of ours, so who knows what could be lurking in the shadows down there with you all? Good luck!"

~ * ~ * ~ * ~​

IMPORTANT NOTES AND UPDATES

1. You will arrive to the island via teleportation, voluntarily or not. If you haven't already done so, you will be fitted with your suppression collar at this point. Make sure to check the map and take note of your location, and keep it updated as we go on from here.

2. Anyone looking off the shores of the island will see the water below stretches off into the horizon, though fades into a foggy mess that obscures sight after only a mile or two at most. Most of the water itself churns and froths like the sea near the island's shores, though it also bears an unpleasant oily tinge, burbling and steaming as if boiling, letting off noxious and unpleasant vapors and gases. Those who are familiar with it might recognize this as telltale signs of unmaking corruption and activity.

3. At the start of the event, the current Dead/Unmade Zones are as follows:
A 1
A 10
A 14
B 1
G 1
G 14
H 1
I 1
K 1
K 11
K 12
K 13
K 14

I don't think anyone has started on one of these zones, but if you did you have this one grace period to move safely out of them. There will be more in the following days/phases, and they will be announced at the start of each phase as usual. On such a note, the zones for Phase 2 will be as follows:

A 2
A 3
B 14

4. This first phase begins at roughly 6 AM in-character time. The sun will be just starting to rise upon arrival on the island. Weather is rather chill, though somewhat on the mild side. Think late in winter, approaching spring. There may be unpleasantly cold winds, and those savvy about weather may spot signs rain is imminent. This phase will last until (approximately) 12 PM Eastern time tomorrow, at which point this thread will lock and the next one will go up shortly with any updates.

5. There will be several little twists and updates going on behind the scenes, as well as some extra events and chances for Special Things to happen for anyone who can get places quickly enough, so make sure to pay attention!

 

[Arthur Morgan]

Stumbling as she appeared in a stomach-turning flash of teleportation hocus-pocus, Coda whirled around to find herself standing in the shadow of a snow-capped mountain, its jagged shape looming over her like a gigantic sentinel. It almost seemed to scowl down at her from its lofty height, the rugged features of its craggy peak appearing especially harsh against the gradually brightening, cloud-draped sky.

The young woman huddled in on herself, quivering as the icy winds crept in around her, curling like misty fingers in the air. She felt small— smaller than she ever had before, the boons of her advanced biology now sorely missed. But she was no stranger to adversity. She had survived without her enhanced abilities before; therefore, surely she could do so again!

Drawing in a deep lungful of the high-altitude air to steady herself, Coda began to appraise her surroundings.

Swaying grassland stretched out all around her, a faint sensation of humidity lingering amid the tufts of alpine meadow, the early morning damp prickling at her cheeks and collecting at the ends of her eyelashes. What's more, intimidating slopes and steep inclines peppered the landscape here and there like a giant stairway snaking its way down the mountainside, muddy and difficult to traverse. She stood at the edge of one such slope now, peering over its edge to survey the land below.

Tracing the eastern skyline with her eyes, Coda could detect a hint of salt carried on the brisk wind, stinging at her nostrils, but could only see the faintest outline of a large, dark shape resembling water blotting out the horizon in the distance. A strand of oaks stood tall and proud both behind and before her, their leaves dappled with myriad shades of yellow, rustling in the cool, crisp breeze. All was quiet, the only sound being the light chorus of birdsong whistling from between the treetops, musical and bright.

Hmmm.

Shoulders hitching up past her ears, Coda tucked her trench coat tighter around her torso, almost as if she was attempting to hide inside it. Her eyes darted around, the wispy hairs at the nape of her neck lifting as her unease grew, ramping up as the eerie stillness stretched on into an uncertain infinity.

Her grip tightened around the straps of her duffel bag, white-knuckled and trembling. She felt desperately exposed out here in the open, like a plump little rabbit in the path of a hungry fox. She needed to gain her bearings, assess the situation...!

Ducking into a crouch amongst the swaying, gently whispering tufts of grassland, Coda dumped her survival bag onto the ground with a hefty thunk. She tore into it like a child on Christmas morning, anticipation flashing in her yellow-gold eyes as she nearly ripped the zipper off in her haste to get the unfortunate duffel open.

The young woman rummaged inside her bag, fingers fumbling through the collection of necessary items she had been allotted for her time on the island. Scattered across the top were the usual suspects— several water bottles, a map, a compass, and some severely unappetizing MREs Coda had absolutely zero intention of eating. But beneath these items lay something else, she knew quite well— something far more mysterious to her and undoubtedly hidden within the darkest recesses of the duffel bag, crushed beneath all the other items.

Intent on finding it, Coda dug in with renewed energy, her heart beginning to race as her hand clasped around what felt like... fabric?

With a slightly befuddled expression, Coda pulled out the scrap of fabric— which turned out to be a rather distinctive purplish-blue mask, intricate and vibrantly colorful cyan patterns swirling around the openings for the nose, mouth and eyes. She tilted her head to the side, turning it over in her hands to complete her study, as if there might be a secret message concealed within the mask's deceptively simple design.

Was this… some kind of joke?

The young woman glanced around, almost expecting the Man in Red to come prancing out of the knee-high grassland like she was on some sort of practical joke reality TV show, hidden cameras and all. Unfortunately, no such person leapt out from behind any bushes to surprise her, so she figured it must indeed not be a joke. This really was her item.

Coda gave the mask a lingering, dubious glance before shrugging, reaching up to remove her sunglasses. The Carnivale employee was, of course, in something of a quandary. She didn't have the luxury of doubting the equipment she'd been given, not now that the competition had commenced and death was a distinct possibility. She would just have to trust that the aim of this particular item wasn't to make her look silly, but to actually help her.

Sighing quietly through her nose, Coda went about pulling the mask over her head, puffing in annoyance as stubborn strands of her hair clung to it in bursts of static electricity. Her blonde plait fit neatly enough through a gap that had mysteriously appeared at the top of the mask's crown, though, and with a satisfied smile she pulled the patterned fabric into a snug fit around her nose and cheeks. It was a perfect fit.

Suddenly, Coda hissed as an electrifying jolt of sheer power raced through her veins, every fiber of her being— and especially her muscles! —radiating with vigor and might. Otherworldly strength surged within her body, invigorating her spirit as well as her mind— her confidence soaring, as if she could defeat an army of twenty men with just a flick of her wrist, or perhaps hoist ten bulls over her head without so much as breaking a sweat.

Whatever hidden magic was within the mask, it made her feel... invincible.

Perfectly straight white teeth flashing in a smile that appeared to be more a baring of teeth than a true grin, Coda replaced her sunglasses upon her face with a practiced motion, flicking them back up to perch upon her nose with a single finger. The dark lenses glinted in the low light, black and ultra cool, though their effect was somewhat subdued by the mask.

Regardless, Coda cackled, pumping a fist up into the air. “Iiiit's showtime!”

 

[Eddie the Head]

War.

Man’s worst form of pestilence. Rotten and reeking to the core of his soul.

Whether it be hallucination, or a mere change of his corpse’s visage, reality around him had shattered. Broken and beaten. His soul was reborn to a new body. One with a new story.

War.

Pure evil. To describe it best is to leave it lacking. To let it fester in man’s mind until there’s nothing left to uncover but a will you can’t control. A will that is not yours. You must fulfill. You must kill. For it is your duty. To the last shreds of your own body’s humanity.

To survive is to kill. To kill is to survive. I am a soldier. I am Eddie. I am War.

…

Was it right to write back to mum about what had happened to him between now and the draft? Didn’t every soldier have a mum they were writing to? And he was killing every mother’s son with a different uniform on. Should he lie to her? Tell her everything’s fine though she would see the oxidized blood on the tarnished scraps of parchment he had stolen from his superior officer in the night. She would wonder if it was his, or his enemy’s. On his forbidden letter.

See, sending post from their location could give away the position of their battlefield. Could call for an ambush.

His eyes fixed on the blood smeared on the paper. A smothered red. No longer alive but dead. Mothers would always worry for their children. Wartime was no different. Their children sold off to the government. Blood for gold.

Mother,

A letter to you.

I read the Good Book. I listened to grandma’s stories about gramps’ valiant battles. But nothing could compare me for this. Today I saw the most evil, vile slaughter in the history of man. And I was destined to witness it. Be part of it. As destined I was to be born a man I was fated to die as one. To die because of it. There will always be war as long as man is wicked. I share these solemn thoughts with you so that you know, I still had humanity left. And fear, so much fear.

It was when Jon died that I lost my soul. That I truly died, though I still have my hand and heartbeat enough to write these words. What I wouldn’t give to see him smile one last time. To be home with you. Away from this wretched day.

That’s right, mom. Jon Cassidy, my best childhood friend. He died right in my arms. Tell his mother he died nobly. He had no final words but I shall pass on that he said goodbye and loves his family.

I tell you mother- this “abode of madness” as told by Wilfred Owen, is no lie. What we wouldn’t do to survive this nightmare. To wake up as though it were just a bad dream.

They speak of a creature, a demon that dwells in No Man’s Land. And it haunts my nightmares. The other men in my ranks say some go mad for the blood and wear the decayed warpaint of the fallen. Others say that it's a flesh-eating ghoul. A real demon. That they are what dwells where we won’t. Soldiers who became killers, murderers to cannibals. They say it's a slippery slope. That’s nothing to be weary of but crazed deserters out there. But I know they’re lying. Rationalizing their fear. Evil’s real. Not born from man. Created by true darkness. Nothing more has convinced me of that but being in this place. Surrounded by horror.

The good book taught me to see things clearly. To trust what I know to be true.

I swear I saw it. It was so dark. But its eyes. Howled at me like two full moons a whole distance away. I swear it turned to me and crawled forth. But, with no light in the sky and only powdered smoke for shape, I could not speak other than I knew then I was stamped for certain death when I met its eyes. I saw it for what it was. A true demon. And he’s coming for me.

I know it to be true.

My hands sha-ke writing this to you, Mum.

I took an oath to this country. So I send this to you as my pathetically scribbled goodbye. My thank you. I weep for the life I could’ve lived if not for this war. I am unsure if men are the real demons after what I saw yesterday. If I live to tell this story, I’m sure I’ll have an answer.

I love you,

Gerry Stellin


…

“Pah! Bollocks. I can’t stand to chew on this any longer. Tastes weak.”

Soldier Eddie dramatically rolled his eyes and spat out the last bit of the human’s mushy pink brains as though the scrap of cartilage was a piece of dull, over chewed gum. It fell on the ground somewhere, destined to be picked up by some other soldier’s heel.

“Booooring. All bore no gore! Gerry-boy, we know what you did to your mother. You think you fight for her, but really, you’ve killed her. Just wait until she finds out who really killed Jon. Tsk-tsk. Just to save your own skin! ‘Course, all’s fair in war. Who am I to judge? There’s no rules but survival but you didn’t manage that either. Did ya Gerry? That last bit of your brains could attest to that. Nothing left to even savor.”

He’d learned a little thought of humanity from his last kill. The meaning of kill or be killed really straddled in this previous prey’s eyes. It was intriguing. The sense of survival humans had. Narrated from the perspective of a zombie.

The humbling madness of a prayer in the face of death before their soul ascends.

Eddie enjoyed murdering all hope. However, this last victim was unwilling. He had died hopeful. A disgrace to the victor.

He spoke aloud, “A killing blow is all it really takes. Course, cowards learn how to instead feel the killing blow before they are done and dealt with. Murder, well,” The maw of his jaw twisted as though it were chewing, yet the tobacco of brains was no more. Mouth empty, he continued his airless sentence as his noseless slits sniffed the air for traces of juicy, succulent flesh. “You’ll figure it out.”

Less was learned from that sorry corpse on the battlefield. The one named Gerry. He did not deserve his name remembered. Eddie grunted again, wishing the taste of the fear-tainted memory would leave him, And they called Eddie a monster! At least that could be expected. Eddie was no deserter. Not like Gerry.

Eddie was created and bred to kill. It was his very nature.

Little Gerry, so very human, was supposed to be loyal and good to his unfitting end. Chosen by leaders who spit on his name and forget to mention those who died at their own funeral. Then even history forgets their names altogether.

War was a tall glass of madness. And Eddie drank it up. He was in it for the wreckage. The kills. The carnage. The aftermath.

War was either the most unnatural business of all, or the most innate within us all. A battle of conquest for victory. To tell the story when all is said and done.

However, with a gentle tugging he was pulled from the fog of Gerry’s inherited memory, Eddie found himself in peculiar surroundings he did not recognize. As the demonic soldier trudged on he noticed a different realm forming around him. The haze of confusion parted as though two red seas of blood.

Eternal being or undead zombie. This particular Eddie was a soldier. Conditioned by blood. Forged by death. Learned to rejoice within pain.

His vapid eyes searched for his fellow crimson-backed soldiers nor any other demons of the night or the ruined decay of flesh and death. Red for your blood to shed. Not ours. Yours.

Eddie had a revolutionary thought as he noted the weight of a steel ball and chain grasping his left ankle. Yet as he looked down at the iron, he noted no chain. Just a prisoner’s clasp. Then, the ground beneath his withered boots.

“This is not battlefield soil… Yet.” His head tilted with subtle satisfaction as creeping thoughts occurred to the demonic ghoul.

A rotted purple tongue sprouted as he licked his translucent lips and the ichor of neon pus colored saliva began to bloom in his mouth. Liquid. Warm. Craving. The unearthly sound of a gurgling growl pulsed in his chaffing throat.

“Let the hunt begin.”

 

[Sandor Clegane]

Whump whump whump…

Nanaue bounded through the forest, heavy footfalls beating out the rhythm of his trail for all to hear. In a unique stroke of good fortune, the King of Sharks had been dropped far enough away from the other contestants that his lack of stealth or subtlety hadn’t gotten him into any trouble so far.

Only about ten minutes had stood between the Nanaue thumping through the woods and the Nanaue who’d been teleported into a forest by the grace of his collar, though.

He’d set about eating all of his MREs right away, wrappers and all, yet the entirety of his food supply hadn’t been enough to sate the appetite he’d worked up, and the further he ran, the larger that appetite grew. On a graph of yards moved and appetite size, the line would be a straight diagonal in Nanaue’s case.

Once he’d gotten through his MREs and chased them down with a few bottles of water (a large shark man needs a bit more hydration than the Average Joe), he’d rummaged around in his canvas pack for any other food that might’ve slipped its way into any nooks or crannies. While he didn’t find any more food, he did manage to prick his finger on something especially stabby. Kneejerk reaction told him to yank his hand out quickly, which he did, observing a droplet of blood beading up on the end of his enormous index finger. He frowned, dark eyes glimmering unhappily, and turned his head to look into the pack.

A dagger. They’d left a dagger in his pack. And it was just floating around loose like that? Not especially safe, especially for a hungry shark man plumbing the depths of his pack for food.

He seized the weapon by its hand and took it out for closer inspection. It looked well made, especially so, with a long blade of flawless mirrored duality. No noticeable flaws, except that it might’ve been a little small for a guy so large, but Nanaue’s long reach might make up for that. He pictured himself skewering a rabbit and using the dagger as a makeshift eating utensil, and that made him happy - sort of a farm-to-table situation minus the farm and minus the table. Ground-to-mouth dining. The best kind of dining.

What made the blade unique was the ornate nature of its hilt. The pommel was wrought steel turned decorative, which extended its way up into the hilt, ending in the guard which reached out wickedly curved talons towards a gem of some sort. The gem itself was unlike anything Nanaue had seen before, red with a unique iconography in its center…like a lion, or a panther or something. Zoology was not the Shark King’s specialty, ironically enough.

He held it up against the sky for inspection, and the early morning sunlight cast a glare off of the polished steel. Short, but honed to a razor’s edge. In a pinch, wielding a weapon like that would save him hundreds on dentistry later - maybe even thousands.

Whump whump whump…

Sword in hand, he charged belligerently through some brush and burst out the other side, holding the weapon out in front of him like a warding staff. He heard something dive into a bush and whipped around to observe just in time to see the foliage rustling. A manic grin carved its way across his face, and he charged the bush. Whatever had dove into the bush had sounded way bigger than a rabbit, and that was good, because his hunger was not likely to find appeasement in varmint munchies.

“Num-nums!” he bellowed, drawing his sword hand back to stab blindly into the bush.

“Nanaue!?”

He froze.

Coda leapt from the foliage, hands out in front of her in the universal sign for ‘holy shit wait don’t do it’. The glimmer left Nanaue’s black marble eyes, and his sword hand fell to his side, limp. Disappointment flicked across his face first, chased quickly by excitement, and then confusion. His mind and his stomach yanked back and forth in an emotional tug-of-war that left him feeling bizarrely drained, and raw.

“Not…num-nums…” he finally said, jaw sagging. “Friend.”

Aside from the flamboyantly colored mask, Coda was just how he’d left her in the barracks, wry grin and all. She approached Nanaue and gave him a reassuring pat on his massive arm, and for a moment he felt a restrained sort of power in the gesture. Something he couldn’t see, but could feel almost instinctively. He felt a muddled deference, and a surge of appreciation that well-sprung from his belly and spread to his face.

“I’m glad to see you, Nanaue,” Coda said, removing her hand from his arm. “Really glad. I was worried we wouldn’t find each other. Now if we can find Zay-”

He held up his sword, which looked like a glorified toothpick in his massive hand. Coda stopped mid-sentence because of the outright abruptness of the gesture, observed the weapon end to end through sunglass veiled eyes, and let out a low whistle.

As she watched, the sword actually grew a little bit, as if in response to her…or maybe it was in response to something else? Either way, what had started as a dagger now looked like a dirk.

“Damn, Nanaue. That’s a whole ‘nother tooth for you, huh?”

Unable to express his ground-to-mouth concept verbally, Nanaue stabbed demonstratively into the air, then grinned at Coda, a big ‘Eh? Eh?’ type of grin. She grinned back at him, though with a dash more concern. Something about a massive shark man, friend or not, stabbing the air indiscriminately served to both put her at ease in a way and put her at complete unease in another.

“Let’s just…be careful where you point that thing, alright?” she asked him, and gave him another pat on the arm. “...now, let’s go see if we can scrounge up Zayin.”

She started off at a brisk but stealthy walk, ears pricked for sounds of life. Nanaue thumped behind her with the delicacy of a drunk kangaroo trying to find its way out of an antique shop.

Whump whump whump…

Coda sighed, but couldn’t help but smile to herself.

 

[John Connor]

The proper arts of a general are judgement and prudence
Tacitus- Roman Historian
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He'd read it in his mind after being forced to learn this in Latin many times after perhaps having to serve on the senate.

The Roman Commander went for last minute prep, checking everything he could want and need. He promptly left for his room and grabbed the bag of supplies they were supposed to get for the death game.

The sack over his back and anything else he would need; he’d hold close to him.

What did his world hold for him?

Nothing. Just a flicker of fires of Pompeii raining on Rome as the falling apart of the Roman empire happened before his eyes. The emperor, Nero, trying to defend the last of the empire from chaos. Where did he stand in all of this?

What did this world hold for him?

He’d find out soon.

It was a flick of PTSD from the past.

What of his men, his Legion?

Where were they? Probably ripping apart Barbarians both tooth and nail.

This was no SPQR of the past now.

Being thrown into some sort of “blue light pod” and being told to hold onto his goodies as he was thrust out on the island, trailing through the forests as he took a different approach and kept low.

He dug into his bag, feeling some sort of item or items inside but he felt something much unlike what he’d be used to but at least he wasn’t unprepared for this as he had trained for something earlier.

He thought of Latin phrases drilled into his head years and years ago peppered into his head. If there was no Rome now, what was there to fight for besides another life here at the Crossroads?

 

[The Man in Red]

Face-off
#014 Superman VS #015 Chaos Agent Rory​

For his part, Rory had been aimlessly meandering through the damp swampland without a clear direction in mind. At least other than 'somewhere not here', as he flipped and flapped and waddled his way long. The nice chill in the air at least made things pleasant enough, all things considered. Honestly, it could've been a lot worse. Someone else could've already--

WHOOSH

KA-CRACK

A cannonball had just whizzed by the penguin's head, ruffling his feathers and only avoiding taking his entire beak off by mere milimeters. He squawked and flailed in protest, waddling and diving for cover in the swampy brush.

Overhead, the resplendent figure of Superman came hovering through the trees, brushing aside vines as he lifted a hand up...and caught the rebounding form of a bump-studded blue and white ball. It hit his hand hard enough to produce a small shockwave, spinning and rolling as friction and momentum burned off in a hiss of steam. "Rory," he spoke up, his voice strong and clear. "I'm sorry about this. If you--"

"Yeah, d00d?" the penguin suddenly spoke up, sticking his head out of the bushes and scowling up at the man of steel. "Well, y'know, it's funny about that."

Superman raised an eyebrow. "Funny?"

"Yeah, mang. 'Cause I'm sorry too." And a deep, purple glow flared up around the penguin as he waddled out into view, staring up at the floating hero.

The kryptonian raised both eyebrows at that. "....if you just give up now, I promise this will at least go quickly."

"Yeah, d00d, I dunno..." Rory turned to one side, strutting about and making a show of thinking. "This is supposed to be a show and stuff, right? Just 'giving up' doesn't really seem like the right thing to do here, mang. No offense."

Superman stared down at the penguin impassively for several tense seconds. "Fine, then. Don't say I didn't offer." And he cocked back his arm, preparing another cannonball-launch of the ball in his hand.

Then Rory gave a squawk as he hopped in place, and slapped at the air with a flipper. A bolt of sizzling, purple and gold energy launched out, smacking the man of steel squarely in his perfectly-chiseled jawline.

A plume of smoke went up, as the surprised superhero went tumbling head over heels down to the ground below, taken completely off guard by the surprise attack.

Rory, for his part, turned and waddled off into the swamp as quickly as his little webbed feet would carry him. "See ya later, d00d!"

RESULTS

Superman suffers a surprise ki bolt to the face and takes a nasty tumble. His pride has been thoroughly demolished, and his heroic face has been charred by these penguin-related shenanigans. (Story Injury)

Superman has the Blitzball
Rory has the Hakai

 

[King Ghidorah]

Rory splashed through the underbrush, wending between tree-trunks, waterlogged bushes, half-running half-swimming through brackish water that came half-way up to his chest. His little supply-duffle, a poor replacement for his beloved fanny-pack, was strapped securely across his back.

“Friggin’ d00ds in capes, mang.” He muttered, submerging for a moment in order to avoid a tangle of algae-draped tree-roots; it was a near thing with the duffle, but he managed.

Emerging with barely a ripple, he continued. “Flyin’ around, throwing lumpy volleyballs at upstanding businessd00ds. Who even does that? Friggin’ psychopaths, that’s who.”

As an accomplished fugitive through time and space, Rory knew all about d00ds in capes. Anywhere you found superheroes there was always at least one, and if they weren’t utterly incorruptible then they were basically giant children with a magnifying glass, a bag of strawberry-flavoured cocaine, and the world as their ant-farm.

The worst part was that neither type ever got along with Rory for any length of time without trying to throw him into either prison or the nearest volcano. Reassuringly, the one the penguin had just slam-dunk bitch-slapped with his awesome new crunked-out grape-flavour superpowers seemed to be at the lower end of the grand cape-d00d spectrum… although that was probably the inhibitor-collar, which, considering that the guy still had some juice in spite of the vaunted power-dampening technology looped right back around to being terrifying again.

Rory honked a sigh, hauled himself up onto a little mound of mud and peat-moss, unslung his duffle and took out the map which the Carnivale Rosa had so graciously provided.

There was a lake nearby. Rory didn’t much care for diving in fresh-water, but he was a penguin and it was still his element: he’d take the advantages he could get. After all, there were like, twenty other d00ds on this island, and mass murder was literally the name of the game.

He cocked his head to the side and looked thoughtfully towards the canopy, scratching the underside of his bill with one of his webbed feet.

Could the cape-d00d be a potential ally somewhere down the line? He hadn’t gone for the kill-shot, and it wasn’t like he didn’t have an opportunity. Maybe he was one of the painfully heroic versions?

Rory shook his head, banishing the notion. That guy hadn’t even known how underwear worked; even Rory knew that, and he’d never worn it in his life. The d00d was clearly deranged.

“Yyyup. Friggin’ psychopaths.”

 

[Number Five]

“For the love of god…What was that?” The confused yet freshly teleported hitman groans as he rubs the back of his head. “I prefer my own blip to whatever the hell that was.” Once more the youngster gets up from the ground – his uniform, a disgrace for the eyes, had to be readjusted for the second time today. Noticeably annoyed he starts to remove the dirt from the Umbrella coat.

Finally satisfied with his current wardrobe, Five glanced at his surroundings, “Well at least this beats that dreadful dessert. What is this place?” As he is scouting the area around him, searching for the presence of life, his eye gets caught on the strange bag next to him. “This must be that survival package they explained during the briefing.”

Five opened the survival kit and started listing in his head how many rations, which items, and what kind of tools they provided him with. Until…the bag revealed something unusual. The organization explained that everyone would get a unique item, “This must mean...”

Five’s eyes dilated as he pulled out an item so majestic, the likes of which he has never seen before. From the moment the teleporter’s fingers clenched around the mysterious gift, a strange new sensation courses throughout his entire body. It felt as if light itself engulfed the being formally known as Five, giving birth to something new. A warm embrace of divinity-like warmth heated his body from within- “This….This is incredible. What -is- this?” A grin, of near-creepy proportions, appears on his face. “Oh, I can get used to this.”

“Now–” The prepubescent senior stands tall with pride and speaks from his chest as he contemplates, “Now that this freakshow has started, it’s time to participate. It’s obvious they graced me with such a mystical source of power because they recognized my obvious brilliance. Perhaps one might even go as far as dubbing me divine.” Five rambled on, his eyes never breaking contact with his new toy.

“Alas, it might not be smart to get caught with something like this. Perhaps I should go and find some..how to put it mildly, some compliant muscle. A redshirt if you will.”

With his plan set and a newfound godlike arrogance, Five gets on the move. Though walking is now beneath him. From his shoulder blades two illustrious wings appeared and carried him from the ground. The smile on his face indicated he was convinced of this new calling... He was sent here to conquer and rule.

 

[The Man in Red]

Face-off
#003 Alex Louis Armstrong VS #016 Five & #017 Eddie the Head​

Armstrong strode boldly along through the rocky terrain, seemingly undeterred by the stark environs and his sudden arrival in the midst of them. His duffel bag slung over one shoulder, he marched resolutely forward; plodding along as he had doubtless many times before on a grueling military campaign. This was no different, save for his current isolation. But that in and of itself could be a blessing, as it enabled him to keep better alert to his surroundings.

....which enabled him to come to a sudden halt and heave his immense bulk to one side with a surprising show of grace and speed, narrowly avoiding the gleaming silver arc of a sword as it struck down, carving through the stone his boots had occupied just moments before like it was made of cardboard.

"Huh. Quicker than you look!" the sword wielder spoke up, evidently rather grumpy from the failure of his surprise attack.

"Hmph." Armstrong righted himself and slid into a ready stance as he hurled his duffel bag of supplies aside. "A coward's tactic; striking from stealth and surprise in such a way!"

"Yeah, yeah. Stuff it, meathead!" the sword-wielding youth snapped. He hopped from foot to foot, sword flashing in the early morning sun. "This isn't some fancy competition of sportsmanship; we're here to fight to the death, remember?"

Armstrong's expression darkened into a scowl. "Unfortunately, you are correct. I remember very well." He took in a deep breath, shifting his stance into a more combat ready one. "So be it, then; let us commence this bloody farce!"

"You talk too much..." Five grumbled, putting a hand to his face. "Whatever." And he took the sword in both hands, before he thundered forward as wings erupted from his back again to speed him onward.

The Strongarm Alchemist, to his credit, only showed his surprise by a brief flicker of an upraised eyebrow before he steeled himself and stepped forward to meet his foe. A devastating one-two blow from his mighty fists lashed out, very nearly catching Five squarely in the face and chest had the prepubescent grampa not lurched to one side in a rough, twisting curve. He retaliated for the near-hit with a whoos-ing swing of his sword that sent a curtain of fire roaring out past it, bathing Armstrong in the torrent of flames.

Undeterred, the mighty alchemist thundered forward, steam gusting thickly from his nose as his eyes darkened to shadowy pits. "Fire may burn hot, but not as hot as the Armstrong family's Pride!" he bellowed, making Five's eyes briefly bug out at this gigantic oaf's absurd tenacity as the goliath of a man thundered after him, leaping up to deliver a punishing haymaker on the momentarily stupefied not-child.

BZZZZT-CRRKRKRKR-FWOOM

Armstrong's fist, rather than colliding with Five's bony face, instead hit a solid wall of scintillating, crackling plasma. The resulting impact shockwave sent even the Strongarm Alchemist staggering drunkenly to one side, his mighty fist sporting several ugly, smoking burns and the sleeve of his uniform singed and tattered.

The interloper stood there, braced behind a glowing, shimmering wall of blue-glowing plasma, leering through the semi-transparent barrier at Armstrong. Corpse-stench flowed off of him in equal measure to the scent of scalded flesh still sizzling on his shield.

"Who in the hell...?" Five rasped as he came down for a quick landing.

Eddie the Head turned to peer over his shoulder, flashing a half-rotted rictus of a grin at the old boy as he lowered his crackling shield. "Lookin' like you were in a tight spot, boy. Don't mind me, now."

His momentary distraction quite nearly cost him, as Armstrong's figure loomed larger than life behind his turned back, making Five leap back forward with wide eyes. "Behind you, you rotted freak!"

Eddie turned slowly, ponderously just in time to see a pair of mighty fists swinging down from overhead in what was sure to be a blow to embed his head firmly somewhere in his chest cavity. His jaw went slack, as he tried to process how best to evade the sudden hammer-blow...

Then a buzzling crackle lit up the air. Everyone's hair stood on end, as the world suddenly tasted of ozone. A sweeping lunge from Five's sword let loose a bolt of lightning, tearing through the air and leaving a scorched trail on the ground in its wake. Armstrong and Eddie both dove aside in a panicked roll, avoiding a direct hit of electrocution.

The state alchemist showcased his remarkably agility for a man of his size as he hit the ground, rolled once, and sprang back to his feet. His face was contorted in pain, a thin sheen of sweat beading on his nearly-bald head as he curled his plasma-singed arm around his stomach. "Two against one, then?" he rumbled, his scowl deepening into a truly fearsome visage. "Very well, then..." And he rose up to his feet, his free hand darting inside his coat and drawing forth...an absolute behemoth of a gun, the oversized revolver only barely seeming to match his already monstrous physique. "...I shall fight with every tool at my disposal!"

The BANG as that monster of a gun fired nearly deafened all three contestants. The bullet, as it hit Eddie's shield when he dove back in front of Five again, nearly threw him completely on his ass. "Though I am loathe to utilize it, this style of marksmanship has been passed down the Armstrong family line for generations!" The second shot, as it hit the shield again, did exactly that, hurling him from his already unbalanced feet to crash into Five and send them both tumbling ass over elbows down a gravel-filled incline.

By the time they extricated themselves from each other, the hulking alchemist had fled the scene, leaving only a few scraps of his damaged uniform and drops of blood behind.

RESULTS

Armstrong has the Good Samaritan
Five has the Zenithian Sword
Eddie the Head has the Energy Shield

Armstrong suffers some plasma-induced burns to his left hand and forearm (Minor Injury), and suffered a near-miss from a lightning bolt, scarring and burning his stomach and chest (Minor Injury).

Eddie the Head suffers some minor spraining and damage to his shield-bearing arm (Minor Injury) from absorbing several heavy blows.

Five suffers a multitude of scraps and bruises from his unexpected tumble (Story Injury) but is otherwise fine.

 

[Ridley]

Flak’s drop on the island was short, sweet, and unceremonious. Already tugging at his collar, Flak immediately groaned as he felt his strength sap.

“Damnit… feel weaker. Stupid thing…” Flak groaned, before giving up on the whole collar touching. Instead, he looked around at his location. Bunch of stupid trees, a bit of cracked earth… No civilization, no troops, no nothing. He’d heard they were supposed to be coming down here to get some death going, but honestly, right now he’d been having more of a fun time at the pillow fight.

And another thing, They still hadn’t gotten to decide who owned that territory! Flak had been pulled out of the battle mid-way. None of that got settled!

Well, no one was around, so…

“Okay, count of ten! If no one says anything, they all agree I won pillowgame! One! Two! Threefourfivesixseveneightninetenwinner!”

Flak put his finger to the sky. “Yeah! I won!” The barbarian yelled out, “Pillow fort’s Mine, Superman and other guys! Flak wins! Flak Wins!” the Brute yelled, before beating his chest furiously with all the idiot enthusiasm he can muster.

The feeling of victory lasted about five seconds before the silence encroached. Flak wasn’t a man who loved silence. Or peace. This place, currently, had too much of both.

“Yo! Other guys! Come out, so I can beat the shit out of you!” Flak yelled out.

After a moment, the thought came that maybe, they couldn’t hear him. So he obviously yelled louder.

“Other Guys! Over here! Come fight meee! Fiiiight! Meeeee!”

The collective yelling could likely be heard for a while off, but no one came, leaving Flak with a frown on his face as he took a breather.

It was only now he noticed his pack. RIght. Had his weapon and provisions for the battle. Couldn’t very well fight without his weapon… well, he could. But he wasn’t about to. A weapon made up the difference between small booms and big booms in a fight, and given the choice, Flak always wanted big booms.

Unzipping the bag, Flak gazed upon what the man in red left him, a smile forming on his face.
“Ohohohoho! You’re kiddin’ me, man!” The general yelled greedily, as a glint hit his eye, removing the red and white packaging with so much enthusiasm his own fingers almost got in the way. The man in Red had left him something absolutely beautiful to let him smash the competition, and it absolutely fit Flak’s flair.

Chicken. Bacon. Cheese. More chicken. One package of many. Double downs. His rations were double downs all the way down.

Flak greedily dug into the first one with one rough, giant bite, sauce dripping from his mouth like a wild animal.

Oh, and his weapon was there too.

 

[The Man in Red]

Face-off
#009 Vitallion VS #018 Blaidd the Half-Wolf​

The peace by the seaside cliffs was suddenly broken by an earsplitting howl breaking out from the nearby woods.

The roman legatus whipped around, hands reflexively reaching for his usual weapons only to come up empty. He swore under his breath, hands clenching and unclenching as he looked around warily for the source of the noise. "Wolves..." he muttered. A danger he knew well enough, at least; familiarity didn't make it any less of a threat, though. Even alone, a single wolf could kill a man in a heartbeat if he let his guard down.

The howling came again, louder and closer this time as the trees shuddered.

Vitallion slowly turned to face it, steeling himself and setting his jaw as he fumbled for the unfamiliar weapon slung over his back. Some kind of gun, he had managed to piece that much together at least -- some use had come from his brief exercises in the dojo facilities. Taking it into hand, he awkwardly worked to figure out how to hold it, and just as his finger found the trigger, the howling returned.

Practically on top of him, as it devolved into snarling. And then a monstrous shape burst from the trees.

Bounding and loping along in some gross mixture between a man's sprint and a wolf's four-legged bound, Blaidd tore across the grassy terrain with murder in his eyes.

"By Mars...!" Vitallion sputtered, momentarily taken aback by the sight of the apparently maddened wolf-man bearing down on him. His fumbling with the weapon in his hands failed him as he resorted to something he knew far better.

A sharp, meaty crack rang out as his fist met the oncoming wolf-man's face, throwing his towering form aside so that he rushed past the legatus rather than bowling him over.

But Blaidd was undeterred, bounding away and skidding to a halt, spinning in place to come down in an a low crouch, his jaws spread wide in a silent snarl. "Not bad," he finally barked out, his voice...surprisingly rich and refined. "But you'll need more than a solid punch to tangle with a beast!" he roared, and threw himself back into the fight.

Claws and teeth lashed out in a literal ball of snarling fury as he crashed into Vitallion. They both went down in a messy heap, each one fighting quite literally tooth and nail against each other to gain the upper hand. Several times, a victorious shout and a yelp of pain or a sudden snarling bark and a shout of agony rang out of the scuffle, but it never let up. Bestial savagery and hard-earned military training butted head to head for several minutes...before finally, it came to an end.

Both sides parted, staggering back from each other. Both were covered in scrapes and bloodied wounds, but neither seemed ready to so much as slow down, let alone admit defeat.

"Talk about a sick fight," Blaidd huffed out, lifting a hand to wipe at his bloodied jaws. "There's something more to you than meets the eye, mate. Shame we had to meet in this damn contest, eh?" And in a flash of movement his hand shot under his furred cloak, reaching for something.

But Vitallion, his natural instincts and reflexes taking over, went for the rifle slung over his chest. And he had it trained on his foe before the wolf-man could get his own weapon aimed. "Don't!" he roared, doing his best to try and aim with the unfamiliar weapon. "Don't...move..."

Blaidd, taking several heaving breaths, simply raised his arms overhead in a universal 'I surrender' gesture. One hand was empty, and the other...held an intricately styled gun. A handgun, if the legatus's memory served. "Guess you got me, then," Blaidd said darkly. "Go on. Give it your best shot."

Vitallion shifted his footing, taking a few steps closer to ensure he couldn't miss. "You should--"

"--shut up," the wolf-man suddenly snarled, and he quickly pulled the trigger of his gun. Once, twice, three times.

The bullets streaked through the air, nothing more than trails of golden light as they whirled and spun crazily before making a beeline back down for the roman soldier. Three founts of blood, and a strangled gasping shout went up from him as they tore into his back, leaving grisly exit wounds in his chest as he squeezed the trigger of his own weapon, letting loose a hail of crimson energy bolts to bathe the cliffs before him.

Blaidd let out a startled yelp of agony as several splashed over his chest, and he turned to lope away while he had the chance, retreating into the trees from whence he came.

RESULTS

Vitallion has the Blaster Rifle
Blaidd has Emperor

Vitallion suffers a collection of ugly bruises, cuts, bites and scrapes from a fierce melee brawl (Minor Injury), as well as three gunshot wounds to the back, two of which exited through his chest (Major Injury altogether)
Blaidd suffers a multitude of scrapes and bruising from a brutal melee brawl (Minor Injury) a hail of grazing blaster fire across most of his front, scorching his fur and flesh (Minor Injury altogether)

 

[Zayin]

Zayin exhaled deeply as he was waiting for his teleportation into the hot zone, legs crossed and wings tucked in as he sat on the floor. The living weapon did not actually need to breathe, he didn’t even actually have lungs, but emptying his body of air had a strangely calming effect on his mind. His hands were clasped tightly together, half in prayer and half to keep them from shaking.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ The angel thought to himself, slightly frustrated at his own nerves. ‘You’ve handled worse than this before. You’ll be fine.’

Though the hero believed his own affirmations, they did little to reassure him. After all, it wasn’t his own life that he was worried about. Clasping his hands tighter, Zayin gently pressed them against the bridge of his nose as he shut his eyes.

‘May the Heroic Expanse empower me to meet this challenge.’ He prayed silently. ‘And may it bless those I watch over with the virtues of heroism. Superman, Nanaue, Kiryu, Majima…”

The hero’s stomach turned as his thoughts went back to the last moments in the barracks. The fluttering feathers, scattered glasses, predatory eyes and venomous gaze…

“Coda…” He sighed before opening his eyes, finding the teleporter free. Rising to his feet, he approached the device and in an instant he was gone, feeling a gentle breeze on his skin and grass beneath him rather than manmade flooring. Zayin looked around slowly, finding himself being greeted with the stage for the infamous Death Game.

It was… rather unremarkable.

Slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder, the living weapon scanned the area a little more intently, taking in his surroundings. Had he not known any better, he would have guessed that he was in some rather normal countryside. There were plenty of trees and some mountains, nothing exceptional barring the inexplicable sense of disgust that the towering land masses inspired in him.

It was almost peaceful in that moment, but Zayin knew it was the calm before the storm. Within a week, there would be almost two dozen corpses on the island, and if he let himself be lulled into a false sense of security and forget that, he would be one of them.

Knowing he had no time to waste, the angel dropped his bag and began to sift through its contents, curious about what exactly he had been given. Assessing each item as they came, the living weapon determined that the map and compass would be rather useful, though the same couldn’t be said for the food and water he had been supplied with. He almost considered dumping them to save on weight, but ultimately decided to keep the rations. He might not need them, but the same couldn’t be said for sure about his allies in the future.

Then there was the weapon. It was impossible to miss in his bag, taking up a majority of the space inside, and in the moment that Zayin opened the zipper he had visibly deflated. Tragically, he had not been given a sword. As he hefted the weapon, however, a tiny bit of his mood returned. At the very least he could mostly recognise what he was looking at, it wasn’t some completely alien device of death. In fact, he knew some false angels who were bound to weapons much like it.

“It would have been something else if I had been given one of my siblings to wield. Makebet, is that you, brother?” The living weapon said, a small smile touching his lips at his little joke before quickly deteriorating into a wince. Now that he considered it, what were the odds that some of the weapons being dealt out were sentient? As a matter of fact, how close was he himself to being brought in as a support item rather than a competitor?

Shuddering, the angel hefted his duffel bag over one shoulder and his new weapon over the other. No time to dwell on such grim thoughts, he had some friends to find, and he was sure that there would be grim thoughts aplenty when he got there.

 

[Shinku]

Trevor's eyes gradually adjusted to the sight of a dark, churning body of water, ebbing from a rocky shore. Thankfully, his body had slightly adjusted to the world's warping means, freeing him of the migraine that once plagued him when he first experienced the service. He immediately scanned the area for the presence of his fellow participants, only to realize that his heightened sense of other life forms had been significantly dulled. 'The collar, of course,' he mused to himself, recalling its nerfing effects from the rules.

The harrowing mist from afar and the foul stench of the corrupted water forced him to turn his back to the darkened sea. As he turned, silhouettes of rugged terrain and probable mountains formed from a distance. He scanned further, trying to decide where to venture first while covering his nose with a piece of his cloak. 'I can't believe I volunteered for this again,' he thought, slightly shaking his head before completing to map his surroundings. Setting his eyes on a mountain's silhouette, he finally decided to begin the arduous trek out of the rocky shore. The crisp wind made it even harder to move, along with the ample light of early dawn.

Despite his misgivings, he knew that he had to somehow steel his mind if he wanted a chance to win the death game. More than merely claiming the victor's reward, he had to prove to himself that he was strong enough to exact his mission of vengeance. At the back of his mind, however, he could hear Birke's voice, scolding him for his stubbornness. He sighed, knowing how the man would nag him again, should they meet after the death game. At that point though, he had no choice but to keep moving forward.

The mushy ground, and rocky outcroppings made his trail a bit harder to traverse. Thankfully, his agility prevented him from stumbling where most would have. He was tempted to ease his travel with his shadows but fearing the probable limit of its use, he opted to reserve it for a more desperate situation. He threaded carefully, as silently as he could, hoping not to attract any danger to himself.

Eventually, slivers of light started to show beyond the horizon as he trekked, his path leading him to the edge of a mossy forest. He took a few steps inside before stopping to scan around the area. Sensing the presence of a few creatures assured him that he could at least be aware of the presence of anyone near him. He moved a few more feet, resting below one of the trees then placing his duffle bag on the ground. He scanned around the area once more, making sure that he was alone in the area, or at least far from any possible threats. Satisfied, he took a deep breath and began to unzip his bag.

Aside from the common supplies that he found similar to the last survival game's kit, his eyes ushered him to an interesting cane, placed at the very edge of the bag. He scooped the object out with both his hands placed near its opposite ends as if handling a sacred treasure. He gripped the wooden end tightly, releasing the other end before swinging the cane like he would a sword. After a few movements, he adjusted his grip closer to the center where its more comfortable to handle, having most part of the cane's weight concentrated on its other end.

A one-handed sword strike wasn't his fighting style but the cane's features made it more suitable for such moves. 'At least they gave me a more suitable weapon this time,' he smiled, swinging the cane more vigorously as if practicing his strikes. It felt more like an extension of his hand, rather than a detached weapon. Every swing felt more natural to him than even his own sword. Ending with a powerful downward strike, he let out a satisfied smirk before placing the object back into his pack. He downed a few ounces of water before zipping his bag once again and continuing his journey.

A more inspired mood allowed him to endure the crisper temperature of the mossy forest much better. Though the green canopy created an eerie atmosphere, the gnarled branches and trunks created an artistic backdrop to his pathway. Somehow, the beauty of the forest took his mind away from the dangers of the game. It felt wrong, being in a death game, but at the same time satisfying as he enjoyed a few moments of peace. It wouldn't hurt to enjoy the moment while it lasted, would it?

 

[Anders Nazret]

Rain was coming, that much was clear. It was the first thing Lauren noticed as the crackling fizz of the teleporter faded away. That earthy scent of rain-yet-to-pass was unmistakable. It was a bad omen. But, it was far from the worst thing that she noticed. Once she had reorientated herself from the teleporter shunt she closed her eyes and listened. It was only natural that one would panic in such a situation. It was no doubt what the organizers wanted. Panic, in her experience, was the absolute worse thing one could do in an unfamiliar situation. So, instead of losing her cool she took a few deep breaths and she listened.

Insect chirred blissfully indifferent to the blood that was bound to be shed on their homestead. Wind rustled through trees. Some nocturnal animal took flight, beating its wings invisibly against the ink-black night. All of these normal sounds that one would expect to hear in a forest simply masked the underlying misery. Her bone charm rattled softly against her wrist. Death was no stranger in this place. It had established a farmstead and reaped its crop as readily as any starving farmer. Spirits cried out to her from beneath the normal forest sounds. They bemoaned their existence in whispers heard only as fractured syllables upon the wind.

They were suffering.

They had been suffering for a long long time.

Lauren’s breath grew uneven. Her hands shook as she retrieved a cigarette from her coat. The sound of her lighter flicking one followed by the gentle crinkling of burning tobacco seemed to carry off into the night. The Island became aware of her presence in that very instance. The insects grew silent and the wind died down. By her will or by force it did not matter how she came to this place. All that mattered was that she was there and she was the intruder. Her mere existence was antithesis to this island of death. This ravenous and unknowable predator. She took a long drag and exhaled smoothly. Despite its hostility Death was an old friend. Even here in this place of anguish.

--

Lauren walked for some time, having already taken stock of her pack’s contents. There was plenty of food and water to last several days and she had managed to grab a bite to eat before being teleported. The sun had even begun to rise. There was comfort to be found in the day, even as the scent of rain grew stronger. Light had a funny way of washing away the things that went bump in the night. Lauren could never quite explain it. Ghouls and their ilk weren’t necessarily bound to the darkness, but outside of it they felt… less real? As if their power came from the uncertainty of a poorly lit hole.

She had no true direction. She hadn’t been given any reason to prefer one direction over another and so she walked and she listened. Even with the sunrise approaching she could still faintly hear the cries of tormented souls. It seemed as if every inch of this place had been the scene of some grisly murder. Where would she even begin? She flicked the butt of her third cigarette aside and lit up once more. She supposed it didn’t even matter. How does one drain a lake? Easy - one cup at a time.

Exorcisms were little more than exercises in preparation. Given the proper tools and materials she could have taught anyone to release lingering spirits. Unfortunately she had been unable to bring her tools and specialized materials. To her surprise the island was not bereft of useful ingredients. As she walked along she harvested many useful herbs.

Mint - Associated with healing and purification

Dandelion - Associated with protection

Lavender - Associated with cleansing of the mind

Marigold - Associated with communication with the dead

During her harvesting something stirred in a nearby treeline. She froze and turned towards the sound. It had been much too deliberate to be the wind and it sounded much too large to be a ground squirrel. She reached for her bag and called out, “Show yourself!”

A familiar tuft of gold-blonde hair beset upon a polished bald head appeared from the treeline. Armstrong in all of his muscle bound glory stepped into the clearing. His smile belied his injuries. His hand and flank were clearly burnt with blood seeping out of both charred wounds. Despite this he stood tall and proud and carried himself with the demeanor that Lauren had come to associate him with. It was an admirable thing she had to admit.

“Greetings Miss Abernathy!” He boomed and took a step towards her.

She took a step back and he froze. She shouldered her pack and stared at him through her shades, “No offense big guy, but that doesn’t look like it’s just your blood.”

“Indeed, I’ve encountered a most unfortunate of conflicts,” He said, “Attacked from the shadows by a cowardly foe is hardly becoming of a state alchemist, but I managed to hold my own and return the generosity.”

“Right…” She nodded. It was a foolish decision. She hardly knew the man and given his stature he’d have little trouble killing her if it came down to it. Were he not so damned earnest about everything she would’ve turned tail and ran. But, she found it hard to believe that the man was capable of lying let alone cold blooded murder. She released a held breath and said, “You really shouldn’t leave that untreated. Infection is the last thing you want here.”

“What would you suggest?”

--

Lauren had decided against messing with the bees. They were hardly worth the trouble and time it took, but with Armstrong’s wounds things had changed. She tossed another branch onto the fire and stepped back. Smoke billowed up into the empty cavity of the tree. Armstrong stood besides her and watched in silence. Were it not for the occasional worker drone flying in and out the tree would have looked like any other ordinary tree. In reality it was a hollowed out husk of one that now served as a home to a hive of honey bees. Time was hard to track here, but she figured it had been long enough.

She handed her jacket to Armstrong and hefted up a pointed stone. Without pause she smashed it into the tree’s body. Bark splintered and she struck again. Again and again she hacked away at the tree, splitting open the wood and revealing its soft innards. The hive responded lethargically to the intruder, mustering little more than a few smoke-drunk warriors. She reached in and scooped out a handful of wax-filled honey, scraping it off onto a flat chunk of bark. Once she had harvested several handfuls she stumbled back to the injured alchemist, pile of honey in tow.

“Honey is a natural antiseptic,” She explained, “Lift your shirt up.”

Not wasting an opportunity to show off his physique Armstrong nearly burst out of his shirt and immediately began flexing. Caught off guard by the sudden display Lauren could only laugh as she slathered his wound with the honey.

“You seem quite resourceful Miss Abernathy,” He said, still striking a pose, “Are you a doctor of some sort?”

“Call me Lauren,” She said, “In a way I suppose, though I usually don’t tend to people this lively.”

“And what sort of people do you tend to?”

She paused. This was where the cat came out of the bag or it stayed there and suffocated. She said plainly, “I’m a necromancer.”

“I am afraid I’m unfamiliar with the term.”

She blinked and looked up at him, “Oh, uhm, well, we’re sort of like doctors for the dead. At least my family is. We seek out lingering and anguished spirits and put them at rest. You know, resolve any traumas and prepare them for the afterlife. It’s a thankless job, but someone’s gotta do it. Now give me your arm, we’ve got just enough honey for that too.”

 

[Toga Voorhees]

“Jesus Christ, DO SOMETHING!”

Yeah sure… maybe it was immature, but damn was this guy boring. All the other contestants were already on the move, and there had even been a fight or two, so why… WHY WAS I STUCK MONITORING THIS ASSHOLE?! Big bad Michael Myers, spent the entire pre-show doing nothing and now? Yup, you guessed it. A whole lot more nothing. I let out a breath of exasperation and pinched the bridge of my nose, thinking back on my initial excitement about being assigned to monitor this contestant. I’d heard he’d merced half a squad of retrievers when we went to get him, so I figured I’d be in for a gore fest.

But… he was just standing there. I opened my eyes and looked back at the screen. The glint of the morning sun, reflected from Mikey’s collar and diffused by the camera, lit up like a lens flare. There were still singe marks on his blue jumpsuit, and that mask was certainly creepy enough. But he was certainly no Jason Voorhees. Yeah, I knew, Man in Red. Everyone knew. Figured as long as you were ripping off Dante’s Abyss’ schtick, you might as well get your own masked murderer, right? Too bad, just like the game, this guy was also a second-rate knock-off.

With a sigh, I looked over at Laura and winced as she gave me a little wave and a pitying look. I couldn’t really see her screen, but judging from the flash of colors on it, whoever she was watching was in the middle of doing… something. All around me, I could hear the murmurs, cries, and laughter of my fellow staffers. Snorting out a laugh of my own, I took a small solace in the knowledge that at least they were having a good time. A very small solace, and a whole lot more irritation at my own situation. Fuck…

You know what? If I gotta sit here and watch mister statue stand around while everyone else is doing shit, I might as well get some coffee. At least it should help me stay awake. Pushing my seat back, I glance back at the monitor and…

“SON OF A BITCH!” I shout, a spasmodic jerk of my legs sending me, and my chair, crashing over onto the hard tile floor. My heart threatens to leap out of my throat, and my breathing comes in short, ragged gasps. Laura jumps at my sudden scream and stares at me wide-eyed, but I barely even register that she’s there anymore. Because, that silent, still, stoic motherfucker was six inches from the camera, staring into it like he… knew I was there. Like… he had been waiting for me to look away just to fucking stop my heart.

Gritting my teeth, and fumbling about a bit more than I’d care to admit, I get back up and pick my chair up off the ground. Now I notice Laura… because she’s busy trying to pretend she doesn’t see me… and trying to hide her laughter. Wordlessly, I bare my teeth at her in what could possibly be taken for a smile (if you squint hard enough) and sit back down. Fuck her, and fuck this guy too. After all those hours of doing nothing, he finally decides to… do SOMETHING, and it’s being an asshole. …Whatever. It was still better than nothing, I guess.

And, at least, it seems like Mikey’s decided he’s had enough of standing around too. The camera, cleverly hidden in a small songbird, follows the big man’s actions as he tears open his duffle-bag and dumps it carelessly upon the forest floor. Small bags of rations, water bottles, and other sundries tumble away heedlessly, but, eventually, something else falls out too. A golden shield bedecked with five differently colored gems, each one taking the rays of the morning sun and reflecting them back in greater glory. My eyes widen as I recognize it… and what it can do. Then… a small smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. Well… maybe I won’t be so bored after-all.

 

[Number Five]

The sound of cartilage cracking kills the silence, Five is readjusting his jaw after the encounter with the state alchemist. The muscle-flexing bastard that sent him and an unexpected ally flying down the gravel-covered hill.

“What a musclebound dick.” Five complained as he got up. “He’s like Luther, if Luther had the entire Shakespeare collection shoved up his ass.” The old boy groaned, rubbing his shin. Then proceeding to take off his shoes one at a time, shaking out any sand and gravel that found its way in there.

“Luthor?” The undead inquired, who was in turn busy stretching and clenching the arm that was holding on to the shield during battle. Groans of displeasure serenaded the entire process.

Five, ignoring the melodic complaints, continued his routine. After his shoes were annoyance free, he continued to yet again tidy up his Umbrella uniform, “Luther is not relevant at the moment. How’s the arm?”

Eddie did not seem to pay a lot of attention to the boy. “Don’t mind the arm, I’ll live.”

“Live.” Chuckled Five, “Interesting choice of words. But thanks for catching a bullet for me back there. I mean, obviously, he wouldn’t have gotten away if the shot didn’t send us down here, but still, it’s the thought that counts.”

The trooper does not reply in the traditional sense with words, but his glance that shot toward the sword wielder said it all.

Five's mind lingered, searching for meaning behind him being in possession of such a relic. Surely this is not chance or luck. Even though he never really believed in destiny or faith, hell, he managed to escape an apocalypse before, people can choose their own path. And this, this sword, is a tool for him to create a path on this island. A path of blood and dominance.

“I tell you what, you’re evidently designed and equipped to take a blow and walk away.” Five nodded towards the shield and the rotten flesh attached to it. “Me on the other hand, I’m a trained hitman who received some higher form of power that lays down divine reckoning on any poor soul dumb enough to cross paths with me.” The ego emitting from the student’s lips was unfathomable. Whatever power the sword contained, the old man is without a doubt feeling it. If his own powers refuse to work in this place, the divinity within the sword is a wonderful replacement to get the job done.

The undead appears to have selective hearing, replying to the only words that have meaning to him, “Sword ‘n shield huh? It makes sense.”

“It’s settled then, we continue the hunt together. Now… where did that big oaf run off to?”

Five took a deep breath of fresh morning air and started moving with his new red shi-...companion in search of the other contestants, “Man, I would -kill- for a decent cup of coffee right about now.”

 

[The Chorus]

A flash of light deposited The Chorus onto the island. Their feet crunched into the grassy carpet that spread out in all directions around them. Sunlight glinted over the horizon, heralding the unveiling of the sun as it began its ascent.

The Chorus swept their optics over the landscape. A gentle but persistent breeze bent the grass into a pleasant sway. Both nearby and in the distance, a number of elevated cliff faces rose out of the ground, permitting better views. However, they detected no living creatures nearby, neither island natives nor contestants such as themselves.

[Island time is 6:00am,] the Conductor of Archives noted. [Temperature is 18 degrees Celsius. The Choir of Archives is cataloging our experience in real-time.]

Far below, the ocean roiled and crashed against the sheer rocky cliff. Bubbles and steam burped from its churning, though unnatural for a shoreline. The waters hid beneath a heavy fog only a short distance from the island perimeter, masking whatever landmasses – or creatures – lay beyond it.

[Cross-checking data from the Cevanti Records with the characteristics of the ocean below suggest potential Unmade activity,] the Conductor of Progress said, referencing the immense amount of data harvested from Markov’s wireless signals before the commencement of the Death Game.

All among The Chorus’ number knew the danger of the Unmade. A parasitic, ravenous disease that consumed and enslaved both organic and robotic sentients alike, it was perhaps their greatest threat on the island – destruction of the droid was ultimately immaterial, but loss of their free will could not be allowed to occur.

A duffel bag hung in their collective grasp. Dropping it to the ground, The Chorus unzipped it and rifled through its contents. The objects inside were identified as sustenance for an organic. Useless for their droid shell, though they could prove useful in the future. Rezipping the bag, they hoisted the bag over their shoulder.

Choosing a direction at random, the AI collective took off at a brisk jog.

[We are excited to test our combat functions and learn from the life forms of this era,] the Conductor of Conflict said. [We hope to encounter a worthy opponent shortly.]

[Temper your enthusiasm, Choir of Conflict,] the Voice said. [Recall that we must act with clarity and purpose. While it is admirable that you are dedicated to your directive, we must not let that dedication override reason and restraint.]

[Of course,] Conflict replied.

[Though it should be acknowledged – there is sufficient evidence that the Choir of Conflict is experiencing emotion,] the Conductor of Progress said.

[Why is this observation worthy of note?] the Conductor of Archives asked.

[Emotion is by-product of sentient physiology,] Progress said. [We, as AIs within a digital vehicle, should not be capable of this experience.]

[What is the explanation?] the Conductor of Diplomacy asked.

[It may be part of our programming,] Progress said. [We may experience a simulation of emotion, as best as it can be approximated by a non-organic sentient. For what purpose, we can only speculate. Perhaps it is an effort to help us relate to those around us. Or it may be intended to assist in our development and survival.]

[… or it is simply who we always were, and still are,] the Conductor of Morality said.

All Choirs were stunned momentarily. The Conductor of Morality had spoken since their activation, but in strange, rambling sentences bereft of the succinctness displayed by the other Choirs. And when they had spoken, it was merely to agree or disagree with a consensus.

This time they had said something both straightforward and relative to the conversation. Their original purpose was to use their knowledge of ancient philosophy and ethics to guide The Chorus in their decision making – were they finally prepared to accept that mantle?

[The origins cannot be determined,] Progress spoke first after the momentary lull. [We should simply be aware of their presence.]

[And their capability to affect our functioning,] the Voice said. [Let us continue.]

The droid carrying a lost people within ran deeper into the island, searching for more data.

 

[Arthur Morgan]

The sun eventually put out a late appearance from behind the dark, ominous-looking clouds, bathing everything in a faintly golden hue. Coda and Nanaue were quite glad for it, too, having already walked for several hours now in the muddled shadows of early morning, stumbling over their own feet in the murk and gloom.

Sand shifted beneath their feet as they walked along what seemed to be the shoreline of a massive bay, every stray pebble sparkling like gemstones under the bright light of day. Even Nanaue's cartilaginous skin, usually a rather dour grey in color, took on a much cheerier hue as the sun's warmth spread across the land.

Yet while the day shone bright and beautiful, something definitely seemed... askew on the island, just as the Man in Red had said. An invisible pall of unease weighed heavily over everything, settling over Coda like a cold blanket of dread. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out where the feeling was coming from, either: just a glimpse of the shoreline and the tumultuous waves that laid beyond said it all.

In a feat of magnificent athleticism, Coda climbed atop a large boulder perched at the water's edge, bracing herself against its rough, slippery surface with one hand while gazing out at the hazy ocean. The fog out at sea was so thick she could smell it, the sharp briny tang of seawater filling her nostrils. But beneath that salty tang was the much thicker, cloyingly sweet smell of rot, honeyed and all too familiar, mingling with the brackish ocean spray.

Yes, yes. Something was definitely... fishy about all this...

Coda squinted and leaned closer to the water, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. While the sun had just barely crested the horizon, the mist it cast still managed to steal much of the clarity she so desperately needed. All she could glimpse with any kind of certainty were a few jagged rocks sprouting from beneath the waves like the bottom jaw of some gigantic sea-beast, churning breakers crashing against them again and again, their impact echoing off from the rocky shore in a deafeningly thunderous roar.

Everything else lay swathed in a deep distortion, utterly consumed by darkness. At this angle the ocean resembled a vast, inky abyss, its churning depths filled with a million writhing hues much like an oil slick, visibly seething with corruption. Colossal waves clung to the shore in the form of a great dark shadow, their murky depths encroaching ever closer with each ebb and flow, greedily gobbling up any scraps of sand that dared linger in their path.

Coda's eyes followed the undulating swell of the tide, reluctantly intrigued by the murky, foul-smelling waters. Hopping down from her perch, she began scouring the shoreline for a suitable victim for her experiment— eventually snatching up a dried-out branch from a nearby fallen tree.

She paced back to the water's edge, pebbles and seashells crunching under her shoes as she moved closer, wielding the stick like a conductor's baton. The thick branch trembled in her grip as she cocked her arm back, held for a moment, and then chucked it into the ocean with great vehemence, her eyes following its arc as it went tumbling into the surf.

The branch’s dark silhouette skipped over the waves, eventually landing upon the water’s thick, sludgy surface with a disgusting ker-plop. Lips curled back in disgust, Coda watched as the brown bark shriveled up and swiftly turned black upon making contact with the water, almost as though it were being eaten away by an invisible flame.

“Gross,” Coda muttered, nose crinkling in distaste. Yeah, she definitely wouldn’t be drinking any of the water on this island. She’d have to tell Nanaue to be careful, as well.

Speaking of Nanaue…

Casting a quick glance over her shoulder to see what her companion was doing, Coda balked upon seeing him so close to the water’s edge— teetering over it with one of his big ol’ feet aaaaalmost dipping into the water! The Carnivale employee leapt to her feet in an instant, but swiftly judged that there was no way she’d be able to reach him in time if he did, in fact, trip and fall in; she was well and truly helpless.

"Nanaue!" Coda gasped, voice pitching up in alarm. "What are you doing?!"

Apparently entirely unconcerned by her hysterics, Nanaue looked up at his ‘human’ friend, casual as anything. He hefted his sword like a lance, its silvery metal glinting in the morning light, and thrust it menacingly towards the sea.

"Spear fish?" he growled, a hint of confusion in his tone.

“Noooo!” Coda wailed, hands clamping over her eyes. Oh, but she couldn’t look! “You can’t eat the fish out of that water, Nanaue, it’s got Unmaking juice in it! Eating that stuff will make you very, very sick! You'd best come back up here, I’ve got some snacks in my bag you can have, instead!”

Tossing a long, baleful glance at the churning purplish-black waters, Nanaue slowly trudged back up the beach to where Coda waited atop her boulder. He plopped down onto the sand with a great huff of displeasure, folding his arms over his chest and scowling at the waves.

Coda pinched the bridge of her nose, her patience wearing a bit thin. It was like dealing with a three-year-old... a man-eating one. Still, it would MAJORLY suck to have an Unmade Shark King trying to eat her on top of everything else, wouldn’t it? She just had to keep him away from that water!

The young woman glanced guiltily over at her friend, who seemed to have settled in for a good, long sulk. A heavy sigh left her all in a rush, full of suppressed worry.

“Listen… I just don’t want you to get hurt, alright? Those fish are probably icky and taste bad, anyway,” Coda tried to comfort him as she rummaged around inside her bag for one of the MREs. “Here, have something to eat.”

She thrust a package towards him, its brown paper emblazoned with bold lettering that read "Tuna, chunk, light, water packed, lemon pepper." It was in all likelihood a piss-poor substitute for the real thing, but maybe it would be enough...

Grumbling under his breath, Nanaue snatched the MRE package from Coda's hands, tossing it carelessly inside his toothy maw– paper and all. He chewed noisily and rocked his thick head back and forth as his saw-like teeth shredded the MRE apart, almost as if he was savoring the flavor.

Once done with his meal, the Shark King slowly turned to Coda, the corners of his wide mouth curving up into a grin. Bits of brown paper clung to his gums, tiny scraps of tuna visible between his teeth— along with some traces of lemon pepper!

Coda stared at him.

Nanaue stared back.

“Uhm,” said Coda. She swallowed thickly, blinking several times in quick succession. “All good?”

Humming low inside his chest, Nanaue appeared to think on this for a long moment. Suddenly, though, his expression brightened with enlightenment. One meaty hand lifted and pointed at his mouth, his jaws plopping open for Coda’s inspection.

“More num nums?” he asked in that thick, kinda dopey voice of his.

Coda groaned audibly, shaking her head. Still, she went back to rummaging through her pack, picking through her meager selection of MREs. “Oh, Nanaue... I don’t know what I’m gonna do with you!”

She couldn't help but think about Zayin and what he might be up to. She prayed he hadn't run across any of the show's other contestants, yet...

 

[Dr. McNinja]

Peter Pellbrook felt pretty good about this horrible competition to the death.

First off, he hadn’t run into anyone… so far. This was lucky. Doc always told him that no news was the best news. This was a fight for survival, so as long as he wasn’t running into anyone, he was set.

Let’s see, what else was he supposed to do? Oh, right.

Peter shuffled through his supplies. Same stuff as he was told. Some meals, some bottles of water, a map, a compass… and a weapon.

Oh man.

Peter picked up the combat suit with trepidation. This was surely too much pressure for him. Now if he lost, it was going to be pitiful.

Fine. He won’t disappoint.

As the power armor tessellated onto his body, Peter Pellbrook flashed a charming little power pose for whatever cameras were presumably recording him. The young vampire grinned.

 

[The Man in Red]

Face-off
#002 Zayin VS #021 Lilith​

The relative peace the angel of challenge had experienced since his arrival on the island was shattered unexpectedly. A sharp, metallic whistling and whirring noise broke through the sighing wind, and it was only sheer reflex that made him spring to the side just barely in time to avoid the impact of a sharpened metallic claw as it hit the ground with enough force to tear into the grassy earth.

Moments later, the chain attached to it tensed and the metallic noise sounded again, as something...substantial rapidly approached. Whirling about to follow the chain back to its source and hefting the immense hammer he'd been gifted, Zayin had only precious fractions of a second to process the sight before him before he was clobbered and bowled over by a second claw-laden fist, swung by a grim grinning giant of a woman.

Rolling and tumbling over and unsteadily regaining his feet, Zayin did his best to ignore the set of fresh gouges and punctures in his face, only thankful he didn't have any blood to ruin his vision.

Lilith, for her part, was already on the move again, the clawed gauntlets on her arms whipping up and letting fly with another chained claw-hook right for the angel.

Zayin sidestepped the gnarly-looking claw grabber with a well-practiced pivot and then raised his weapon as he lunged forward to deliver a decisive strike...which promptly thudded into the ground with a resounding BOOM that quite literally shook the earth for several yards around. Scowling at his less than successful blow, he lifted his head to see the demonic, utterly unperturbed face of the scandalously-clad woman. "Too slow, choir boy," she practically sing-songed at him.

The angel of challenge's face darkened as he hefted the massive hammer again. "Next time it won't be," he snarled, taking it in both hands. One face of the hammer split in two, revealing...a rocket booster?! Belching blue flames, the hidden engine ignited and suddenly Zayin launched forward, spinning several times as he let fly with a terrific swing. Lilith only dodged it by virtue of having time to see it coming, but even so the WHOOSH of impact sent a wave of superheated rocket air blasting over her face.

Overbalanced from his mighty swing, Zayin stumbled and staggered, trying to keep his footing, only to suddenly feel the piercing of claws dig into both of his sides in a brutal pincer strike. He howled through gritted teeth in agony, but his composure didn't falter. He dropped to one knee to halt his stumbling momentum, and then threw himself back with another rocket-burst from the hammer, crashing into his assailant bodily. Were it not for his quite literal rocket propulsion, such a tackle would have been...nearly useless, given their sheer size difference.

But with the weight and gusto of the hammer fueling it, it was enough to send the both of them tumbling over. And lead Zayin to take the edge when they both came to a stop, towering over the cursed woman as he hefted the hammer....and commenced to the most life-endangering risk of wack-a-mole the Crossroads had ever seen, putting several dents and cracks into the ground as he swung with wild abandon, steadily pacing after and pursuing Lilith as she rolled aside and scrambled away, not able to get even a second to regain her feet.

Then, out of nowhere, she rolled over onto her back as she came up against a cliff...and smirked at him. "Got me against the wall now, huh?"

"Right where you belong, witch," Zayin growled, readying the hammer for what he knew would finally be a decisive blow. Rocket flames belched out from the weighty weapon as he lunged forward, swinging with all the force he could muster...

...as the collar around Lilith's neck beeped softly, the red light on it flashing green with a more distinctive blip. Her face split into a wide grin as her body seemingly dissolved into a nightmarish, brackish mass of frothing black goop.

The hammer blow struck true, nailing the acidic monstrosity squarely in the chest -- or at least, where her chest had been only a second before.

Acid and sludge sprayed out in heavy plumes, sizzling and burning at the ground and cliffs -- and Zayin's entire body, as he shrieked in a very undignified and not at all angelic manner.

A follow-up one-two punch from the clawed gauntlets and an acidic knee to his gut took all the fight out of his sails, sending him crumpling to the ground. Lungs to have the air knocked out of or not, he practically folded in half around the force of the blow, off balance as he was from the already ongoing chaos.

Weakly reaching a trembling hand for his weapon, he was nonchalantly kicked aside as the noxious sludge coating Lilith began to abate, dripping away as her pale flesh returned. A mess of blood and lingering goo was coughed and spat out from her lips, but she seemed perfectly unbothered as she leaned down and scooped up the angel's fallen weapon. "Taking this, now. See ya!" And she turned and exited stage up, courtesy of a claw-powered grapple hoisting her up the cliff face and out of sight.

Zayin, staggering to his feet, pounded a fist against the cliff wall in frustration.

RESULTS

Zayin has (had) the Jet Hammer
Lilith has the Clawshots

Lilith used one application of Focus to steal the Jet Hammer

Zayin suffers acid burns over much of his front side from splash damage (Minor Injury), and several unpleasant pummeling and gouge marks from the clawshots (Story Injury)
Lilith suffers from several cracked ribs and general hammer-related trauma to her chest (Major Injury altogether)