DGS3 -- Day 1, Phase 2

[The Man in Red]

"Ahem." The voice of the Man in Red broke through the island's relative stillness. "Good day, down there! The time is now, oh...about noon. Everyone having fun, I trust? Excellent, excellent. Before we proceed, let us take a moment to ponder over...all zero of you who have died so far. Tsk, tsk, off to a slow start, even with all that fighting already...for shame!"

A brief pause, before he continued. "Ah, yes...remember those dead zones out there now? Well, there's going to be more of them soon. Keep your eyes peeled for the following, next phase:
J 14
E 1
K 6
K 7
A 8

"And also...we've detected something you all might find unpleasant down there. A few...unexpected and uninvited guests, come to rain on our parade." The displeasure in the showman's normally jovial tone was almost painfully evident. "Make sure you watch out for them. We can't track them as of yet on our end, and they're quite dangerous. I certainly wouldn't advise you to take them on alone, but then again, I'm not your daddy! I can't tell you what to do! In the meantime, though, rest assured we're working on finding some way to track these party crashers, and we'll have news for you...soon."

"Ah, and as a final treat...we'll be dropping a little treat for you next phase. It will be dropping at...oh, F 11, up in the mountains. Be sure and ping your collars if you'd like to participate and squabble for it!"

~ * ~ * ~ * ~​

Behind the Mask

Everything above should, hopefully, be self-explanatory, but to offer a little extra insight:

Roaming Bosses: At the moment, there are 3 randomly roaming bosses. They will exist at random on the map, much like the NPCs. You can opt-in to challenge them if you run across them, but otherwise ending up on the same space will only trigger a brief 'encounter' to reveal their identities and you will escape (relatively) safely. Be warned that they are quite strong, and not likely to be taken down easily without some significant firepower or extra help. As a little extra bonus, at least, fighting one as a single participant will grant the max level of Cornered Tiger for any player, and they never receive benefits of Cornered Tiger even if outnumbered. They will receive tracking so they can be challenged properly in coming phases.

Easter Egg: It will be dropping at space F 11 at the beginning of Phase 3. If you are nearby, you can physically move there to take part. But if you aren't and still wish to, you can ping your collar to be teleported there to compete, then back to your previous location afterward. Send me a message with your move(s) to confirm whether you're taking part.

Lastly, as always, this phase will last until approximately 12 PM/Noon Eastern time tomorrow, February 15th.

 

[Sandor Clegane]

“...so he runs around snatching up all the hamburgers, you see? He wears this ridiculous black and white pinstripe jumper with a cape, and a mask, and his whole thing is that he’s burgling all the burgers, so they call him the Hamburglar!” Coda smirked and raised her eyebrows at Nanaue, who stared back at her with vacant, hungry eyes. “The Hamburglar, Nanaue!”

His head bobbed up and down dutifully, but the pun was clearly lost on him. Coda sighed and shook her head. Her grin faltered.

“Man, our dynamic is just kind of…off without Zayin. It’s like we’re a Stooge short of the full Three, you know? Larry and Curley aren’t as funny without Moe.”

She glanced over, and sure enough Nanaue’s head was still a-bobbin’. She picked up the pace a bit, and the thumping of the shark man’s bare feet alongside her hastened to match her stride. Whatever his shortcomings in the intelligence arena, he didn’t want for strength or endurance.

…that being said, there was a salmon shark sized problem blossoming and growing in the back of Coda’s mind: a timer, like the sort you’d see on a bomb, and it was racing towards zero. It was the time between the present and the moment when Nanaue’s hunger got the best of him, and with every step they took, the size of the problem grew. A couple of MREs might put some juice in his tank, but for how long? And what happened to her when they ran out of food? Unilaterally, an equal number of MREs had been distributed amongst the contestants, apparently, regardless of size or weight or carnivorousness. Their supply was dwindling rapidly. With time, this could grow to be a Great White sized problem.

An unpleasant thought dawned on her - a jarring thought, because of just how dark it was. They’d need to feed Nanaue, and the only thing big enough to stave off his hunger was probably…

She’d been hoping not to run into some random stranger, but with that realization came the knowledge that they would need to run into someone before too long if they wanted to sate the Shark King’s hunger. After all, friend or not, how far could you trust a starving shark when push came to shove? It didn’t make her feel good to think of the other competitors as a supply chain for her hungry friend’s appetite, but…

Farm-to-table or ground-to-mouth or whatever. Hungry shark's gotta eat…

She looked over at Nanaue, whose head turned to meet her gaze. He wiggled his enormous fingers at her and smiled absently.

Coda smiled back, concern worrying at the edges of her sunglass covered eyes.

A twig snapped under Nanaue’s foot and Coda stopped abruptly, looking at him with that jumpy twitchiness that belongs to the truly unnerved. She took a deep breath, spotting the snapped twig, and shook herself off to sort of reset a little bit. This was not the time to lose one’s cool, things had barely begun, and shit had definitely not popped off yet, so there was nothing to be scared of…right!? She nodded for Nanaue to follow her, and began to descend an embankment.

King Shark slid through the dirt and the grass, stabbing his sword into the ground every once in a while to steady himself, gripping the branches of trees here and there to slow his descent, and eventually they found their way to the bottom. A small stream snaked by - fresh water, Coda noticed with relief, following its path with her luminous eyes. It wound its way through a leafy, mossy forest floor and past some rocks, then swung a hard right turn off into the forest. Its steady trickle assured her that somewhere at the end of its path, a larger body of freshwater awaited them. Something interesting and relieving about freshwater was its tendency to support flora and fauna, the latter of which would go a long way towards providing her peace of mind in the wake of her grim realization.

“What do you say we follow that stream, Nanaue?” she asked, pointing it out to him.

“Stream,” he affirmed, and he pointed where she pointed with his opulent sword.

That was good. He understood. Sometimes she wondered how much he understood, and how much he was just kind of…going with things that happened around him. Best not to think about that, though. She pulled her mask down a little further below her jawline, hoisted her pack up, and set off along the bank of the stream. Heavy shark feet thumped along beside her.

 

[The Man in Red]

Face-off
#002 Zayin, #008 Mister Satan​

As he plodded his way along the cliffs and mountain-adjacent forests, Zayin seethed quietly to himself. Not that he had been effectively bested in combat, not that he had lost his weapon (though both of those things, admittedly, bothered him quite a bit). But that he had been made a fool of by that woman in particular.

He would never hear the end of it. From himself.

His sheer, overpowering disgruntlement caused him to almost completely fail to notice as he walked right up to...and then past someone else.

"Hey, hey, hey, now!" came the startled, hoarse voice of said someone else. A voice that Zayin recognized, even if only offhandedly. "You just gonna walk right past the champ like that?!

The angel of challenge sighed and slowly turned around to face the afro-clad man, staring listlessly at him.

"That's more like it!" A broad grin split Mister Satan's mustachio'd face. "Now, then, let's...." He trailed off, suddenly blinking dumbly. "Uh...hey, pal, where's your weapon?"

"I don't have one," Zayin stated flatly. "It was taken from me."

"Taken?! You mean people can do that?!" the champ squawked, his face suddenly breaking out in a cold sweat as his eyes threatened to pop out of his skull.

"Yes. Apparently." Zayin grunted.

"....w-well, uh....then how about this?" And Mister Satan shrugged his duffel bag off, plopping it to the ground and unzipped it. Fishing inside, he produced...a truly behemoth of some kind of rifle. "I still got mine!" he said proudly, hoisting it up onto his shoulder. "And so here's what I got to say: it just ain't right to let somebody go without a weapon in a fight where weapons are the main attraction! And so..." The world champion jabbed a thumb to his chest, his confident smirk returning. "...I, Mister Satan, the champion of the world, will agree to lend you my assistance! Until such time as we find you another weapon, to make this a fair fight!"

Zayin just blinked once. Then seven more times. An internal debate waged as he rocked his options back and forth...then finally he sighed and a rueful smile. "Well...it would be rude to refuse such a generous offer, now, wouldn't it?"

"Gahahaha!" Mister Satan laughed boisterously, stepping close and slapping his free arm around Zayin's shoulders. "Now that's what I'm talkin' about! C'mon, pal, let's go!"

RESULTS

Zayin has acquired new weapon: FRIENDSHIP OF CONVENIENCE (Rank ???)

(Spoiler: Not an actual weapon)

 

[The Man in Red]

Face-off
#004 Michael Myers VS #011 Kiryu & Majima​

"Hey. You there." Kiryu Kazama, the Dragon of Dojima, slammed one leg down on the top of a half-sunk log to announce his arrival on the scene as he glared ahead at the competition. The hulking man in that ridiculous blue jumpsuit and mask didn't even respond, seemingly staring off into the distance. Kiryu's expression remained similarly unmoving, though his irritation ticked up a few notches.

"....oi." He called out again, and again received no response. His irritation ratcheted up several more notches, both hands clenching into fists. What was with this freak?

Leaning forward, Kiryu took off at a run. If he wasn't going to respond, then no point wasting any time on formalities. With all the grace and finesse of a runaway tractor, Kiryu thundered into the fray and drew back to deliver his best running haymaker to Myer's masked face.

It hit the side of the killer's head with a sound like a cannonball splatting into wet cement. Or a hammer hitting rubber-wrapped steak. Despite the sheer force behind the yakuza's blow, it only served to make Myers turn his head with the impact, barely even staggering.

Kiryu warily took several steps back, his expression darkening. "...nani?" Even someone as monstrously tough as Mister Shakedown couldn't just shrug off a punch like that! What was this guy?!

Myers slooooowly turned back to look at Kiryu, tilting his head slightly. Then he simply...started walking forward. In no rush, in no hurry. Moving at a sedate, almost plodding pace as he steadily closed in.

Without waiting for this absurdity, Kiryu thundered back in, fists flying. He landed a solid one-two punch straight to the masked killer's chest, immediately following it up with a fierce uppercut and throwing all his weight and momentum into a leaping side kick. For all the effect it had, though...he might as well have been beating on Myers with a pool noodle.

The masked killer simply reached out with a surprising suddenness and grabbed hold of Kiryu by his neck, lifting him off the ground like he weighed nothing at all.

"Gh...!" Kiryu brought his hands up to grab onto his assailant's arm, trying to wrench free or break his grip. But it was like trying to break steel with his bare hands. He could only barely manage to keep the iron grip from choking the life out of him, left to watch as his foe slowly lifted his own weapon, the ornate shield flashing and glimmering in the midday sun. "....guh!"

"Oi, oi, oi, oi, oi!" Nearby, a moss and algae-covered rock suddenly jostled and jolted before being flipped over, revealing it was...actually a very carefully crafted and hollow foam replica. And from within, came the unpleasant leering face of Majima. Slathered in camouflage paint, and decked out in his best 'commando' getup, the eyepatched Yakuza glared venomously at Myers. "Kiryu-chaaaaan, come on! You shouldn't be having trouble with this guy!" he whined.

"M-Majima...san...!" Kiryu managed to croak out.

"You're hopeless sometimes, I swear..." the Mad Dog lamented, shrugging helplessly. And then with a sharp whistle and yowl, he bolted forward. From somewhere behind his back and under his jacket, he suddenly produced...a magnificent, gleaming halberd. Spinning it about as if it were a dagger, he took it in both hands and leaped into the fray.

His first strike hit home, landing with the blunt side on Myers' elbow with a loud, echoing CRACK that made his entire limb buckle and finally release his deathgrip on Kiryu. His second swing came with the sharpened blade of the weapon as he whirled around, only to find it caught on the shield in the masked killer's hand. The shock and reverberation that traveled up the shaft of the halberd made Majima's teeth chatter and his arms nearly go numb as he staggered back.

"Majima-san...he's too much effort to take on right now...!" Kiryu gasped, gingerly rubbing his neck. "We should retreat, at least for now."

"Tch..." the Mad Dog snarled as he quickly hopped back to stand next to his ally. "Is that any way to talk, in the middle of a death fight? Eh?! Kiryu-chan?!" And he turned around to see Kiryu already booking it in a hasty retreat, disappearing into the swampy distance.

".....eh?" Majima just blinked dumbly, as Myers loomed behind him. He turned just in time to catch the heavy, resounding CLANG as the shield crashed into the side of his head, sending him staggering through the swamp and lurching into a hasty retreat of his own. "Wait for me! KIRYU-CHAAAAAAN!"

RESULTS

Myers used 1 application of Focus

Myers has a fractured right arm from halberd-related trauma (Minor Injury)
Kiryu suffers some bruising to his throat that will make it hard to breathe for some time (Story Injury)
Majima suffers a nasty, bleeding knock to the noggin that will probably bruise something awful (Minor Injury)

 

[The Man in Red]

Face-off
#009 Vitallion VS #014 Superman​

Vitallion struggled his way away from the shoreline. His breathing was ragged, and the taste of iron lingered strongly in his mouth. That damn wolf-man had done a number on him, with that strange weapon of his... He couldn't afford to get careless again.

A shadow fell over him suddenly, and his blood ran cold. He spun around, his blaster rifle at the ready, to be greeted with the sight of...Superman, hovering there and looking immensely disgruntled. "You're...Vitallion?"

The elgatus shifted warily, hacking up a fresh new wad of blood. "I am. And you are?"

"Superman." The man of steel descended down to the ground. "I see you've already been hurt. Off to a rough start?"

"....you might say that." Vitallion gestured toward the kryptonian's face with his rifle. "Not entirely unscathed yourself."

"Someone got in a lucky shot," the man of steel said dismissively, reaching up to wipe another trace of soot from his face. "I'm still fine. Which means..."

"....yeah. I know what it means," the legatus grumbled, grimacing as he took several steps back. "At least you're more honorable than the last one."

"In spite of being here, I'm not a monster." Superman scowled as he uncrossed his arms, revealing his...weapon. "But I aim to put an end to this. By any means necessary, if that's what it takes. There are more important things we should all be worrying about."

Vitallion answered with a hail of blaster fire at his foe, the energy bolts peppering the air and forcing the man of steel to lunge to the side and take flight to avoid being gunned down. Turning sideways as he went, Superman cocked back his arm and hurled the blitzball. It missed taking Vitallion's head off as the legionnaire ducked and rolled to the side, coming up in a crouch as he brought his aim around again. "Your aim could use some work, Superman," he growled.

"I wasn't aiming for you on the throw," the kyrptonian said shortly.

"What are you--" The legatus's bafflement was cut short as the blitzball made its return. Ricocheting off stones and terrain it made its way back with punishing force, striking the commander in the back of his head with bone-splintering force. He let out a sputtering noise, of incoherent and mangled words as he staggered forward and hit the ground, hard.

Superman held out his hand for the ball as it returned to his hand, spinning and steaming as its momentum bled away. "Stay down, if you know what's good for you," he said. His voice was cold and strong, but there was...a sadness in his eyes that couldn't be mistaken as he floated down to land next to his fallen foe, ostensibly planning to finish him off.

Vitallion, curling his hands into fists. "A son of Rome...does not surrender..." he ground out. In spite of the blood filling his mouth, in spite of his vision swimming with stars, in spite of the world seeming to spin drunkenly around him...he fought through it all. And out of sheer, stubborn pride forced himself to move.

He grabbed the man of steel by one leg, violently yanking on it. It as much pulled him up as it did pull Superman off-balance, and that moment of leverage was all Vitallion needed. Through the concussed, red haze clouding his vision the legatus surged to his feet. Ignoring his rifle, he instead struck out with his bare hands. A punishing blow to the superhero's jaw, a headbutt that hit with an earsplitting CRACK, a pushing kick that momentarily took the wind out of Superman's sails, a wildly swung punch to the hero's jaw, and a lunging knee to the off-balanced kryptonian's gut.

Superman doubled over, his face contorting in pain as he coughed and gagged, lungfuls of air and mixed bile and blood were spat out as he staggered back. Lifting his head as he caught his breath, the mercy and sorrow that had once painted Superman's face was gone. Now only a cold mask of muted rage and regret. "Fine...have it your way, then." And he lunged forward, one fist cocked back.

With a final impact that left Vitallion's world black and ringing piercingly in his ears, the fight ended, the roman half-embedded in a nearby cliff wall as the man of steel spat out another wad of blood and flew away.

RESULTS

Vitallion used 1 application of Focus to heal, and was pressured into using another application of Focus

Vitallion suffers a blitzball-induced skull fracture and concussion (Minor Injury), and has had several of his ribs almost entirely broken (Insane Injury)
Superman suffers from several devastating surprise blows, which include cracked ribs and several cracked teeth, which managed to draw blood (Major Injury for tracking purposes)

 

[The Man in Red]

Face-off
#005 Mid-Boss VS #006 Trevor O'Skully & #010 Flak​

"This would be a terrible place to fight somebody," Flak grumbled as he trudged alongside his ally of the moment. "Know what I mean, bud?"

". . ." Shinku, or rather, Trevor, was silent for a moment as he slowly surveyed their surroundings. "I suppose. The terrain is pretty rough and it would be hard to maneuver properly."

Flak grunted noncommittally. "Defensive terrain," he muttered. "Only really able to get footsoldiers up here, but so much cover and places to hide, you can almost never dig 'em out when they get dug in."

Shinku was, for a moment, puzzled by that. But perhaps wisely, he chose not to actually comment.

Further deliberation was interrupted by the sudden sight of someone ahead. Standing there out in the open, as if lost to the world, staring up at the mouth of a cavern yawning in the side of a mountain's face.

"Yo, hold it. We got us an enemy unit here," Flak suddenly growled, holding out one meaty arm to stop his ally in his tracks. "We better get the drop on 'em while we can..."

Shinku looked from the lone man to Flak, and then shrugged, nodding. "Not a bad idea."

Mid-Boss, for that was who it was, lifted a hand to his chin as he surveyed the cavern before him. "There's some manner of treasure in there, I'm sure of it...but what to do...? I also sense danger..." The noble demon was taken utterly off-guard by the sudden blast of plasma that hit him in the back, making him let out a very undignified screech as his back arched and he leaped nearly a full ten feet off the ground.

Whirling around with his backside smoking, the demon glared at his assailant with flexing, clawed hands. "How dare you!" he snarled. "Attacking moi from behind, like a coward!"

Flak just grinned, the blue cannon on his outstretched arm shining in the sun. "Call me a coward if you want, but you're still a loser!"

"So it's to be that way, is it?" Mid-Boss growled. "Fine, then! I can stoop to your level, if need be...en garde, sir!" And with a flourish as if drawing a blade, he delicately plucked...something from his belt.

....just in time for Shinku to pounce on him from the side. A swift, whirling strike of the hooked staff in his hands clocked the demon over the head, in his gut, and swept his legs out from under him all at a dizzying speed.

Mid-Boss hit the ground with an audible whumpf, but only remained there for a moment. Slapping his free hand down on the earth he regained his feet in a quick hop, and launched into a surprisingly acrobatic and graceful series of carthweels and flips to put space between him and his foes. "Two against one?! How disgraceful!" he seethed. "How dishonorable!"

"This isn't meant to be honorable," Shinku said coldly.

"Yeah, pal," Flak trained the buster on him without missing a beat. "We're here to smash the competition and win, not play fair." And he opened fire with a rapid volley of shots from his shiny new toy.

Mid-Boss smirked and tightly clutched the delicate bundle of cloth in his hands before throwing his arms out to either side. A visible wave of force rippled out from him, churning up the earth and sending the buster fire scattering in every direction. "I don't intend to make it easy for you!" And he raised his hand overhead, electricity crackling and gathering around his fist before he leaned forward and let fly with a bolt of lightning at his assailants.

Both the Wyvern General and the Assassin of Shadows hastily rolled and scrambled aside, avoiding the bolt of crackling doom. By the time they had recovered, Mid-Boss was suffused with a faint white glow, akin mist or clouds clinging to him like a suit of armor, as he charged into the fray. Even barehanded, aside from his talisman, he leaped into the fray directly. Moving like something between a dancer and practiced fencer, he struck out with both hands and a flurry of kicks, agile feints and jabs as he put his expertise on full display.

And it certainly was impressive, as he was able to pressure both of his assailants back, steadily forcing them into the mouth of the cave. Flak managed several shots and even several hits on their wily foe, but the shimmering mist around him seemed to just absorb the brunt of the onslaught, leaving only minor burns.

Finally, though, Flak had had enough. With a bellowing roar of defiance, he shoulder-checked Mid-Boss right in the middle of one of his fancy high kicks. He suffered a heavy thonk on his noggin for the trouble, but he could worry about that later. He bodily grabbed the uppity fancy boy with his free hand and tossed him toward his ally. "Catch!"

Shinku did just that, reaching up with the hooked end of his cane and catching the noble demon by the neck. With a sharp tug and a loud "GWAHK" he sent the wily foe crashing to the ground, where the misty cloud around him splintered and dissipated.

"Not gettin' outta this one, pal," Flak rumbled as he stomped up and leveled the barrel of a now fully-charged buster at him.

"Au contraire, my barbaric friend," Mid-Boss chortled. Clenching his fist around his talisman, he forced it up. A soft jingle sounded from somewhere, then the air around his fist rippled as air was sucked in toward him.

"Ah, crap."

Next second there was a deafening explosion of pure force and sound, shattering the ground under the trio of combatants and bringing the entire mouth of the cave crashing down atop them.

RESULTS

Mid-Boss was pressured into using an application of Focus

Mid-Boss suffers serious plasma burns across his back (Minor Injury) and several bruises and smarting wounds (Story Injury). He also suffers a score of countless minor burns and bruises from buster fire (Story Injury) and several nasty injuries (and probably a concussion) from the cave-in he caused (Major Injury)
Flak suffers a few unpleasant bruises and scrapes from Mid-Boss's epic dance moves (Story Injury) and a heavy knock to the head that will probably leave him seeing stars for a while (Minor Injury)
Trevor takes several unpleasant bruises and scrapes from Mid-Boss's epic dance moves (Story Injury), and a plethora of minor abrasions, scrapes and bludgeon-related trauma from the cave-in (Minor Injury altogether)

 

[Karl Jak]

He’d had taken a siesta during the remainder of the preshow. It wasn’t anything as outlandish or … colorful as the midday naps that Mr. Jak would take after an overnight bender at an open-bar beach resort, but it had a surprisingly restorative result for the redhead. On the advice of the aforementioned businessman, Kevin had planned to perform a very shallow and cursory examination of the supplies.

“Eyes are everywhere, Kevin. Make sure you don’t actually think too deeply when you review your sack. Better yet, you should do it off camera.”

There was a little camera up in the corner of Kevin’s small room, and he was certain that the entire facility had been filled with devices. Nevertheless, this didn’t matter, because the footlocker (they couldn’t even come up with other bedside storage?) was on some sort of timelock. Kevin assumed this was to delay the reveals or to possibly prevent contestants from sharing information but wasn’t that part of ‘the fun’? After all, the types of people who signed up for these events seemed to often had a prescience when it came to tracking and determining the equipment of their peers. Why delay the inevitable?

Clearly, this was not a Syntech operation.

In silence, Kevin spent the remainder of the preshow reviewing the staging grounds for the event and attempting to make as many notes as he could. At the very end of the small legal pad, he had his trademark ‘To Do’ list, but unlike the majority of days, his list this time around was fairly simple and straightforward.

To-Do:
1. Don’t die
2. Don’t trust people with accents

Kevin, who hadn’t felt quite this awake in the majority of this third experiment with ‘life’, found himself pulled from his little world by the announcement about departure to the island. As he had surmised, this company had ‘out of left field’ opted to teleport everyone from their rooms rather than arrange aerial transit. On the notepad, Kevin scrawled ‘assume unadvertised disaster and/or changes to expectations’.

In order to follow Mr. Jak’s advice, Kevin opted to ignore the single-file line that would form. He’d enjoy his last moments in the sanctity of this upscale warehouse of a preshow facility before being shunted over to his future resting place.

Click-click!

At the very least, the box made a lovely noise and had some pleasant pneumatic hisses as it eased open to allow access to its contents. In orderly fashion, Kevin set down his legal pad and retrieved the duffel bag from the footlocker. Much to his displeasure, the bag was clunky and too heavy for its own good. As he undid the zipper, he immediately found himself drawn to the reason for the normally compact satchel’s distended appearance.

“Is this some sort of joke?” He asked as he looked down at his weapon and frowned. What would he do with something like this? Kevin glanced over his shoulder and up at the little camera in the corner of his private room.

Oddly enough, the item in his bag seemed to exude a blend of heat and static, because Kevin felt the hairs on his arms stand up as he fished around the object to count the other necessities in the baggie.

Given his ‘professionalism’ when it came to tracking and cataloguing, Kevin ran down the majority of his time simply counting, recording, and then reorganizing the various objects into the duffel’s side compartments. The map, which was rolled in a nice leather container, he rolled out and jotted a variety of notes onto his legal pad. He contemplated leaving it behind, because he wasn’t sure he’d need to reference it anymore having seen it once, but he opted not to take any chances. After all, there was no telling what the island might contain, and there could be some sort of toxins or concussion-inducing dangers waiting for the young personal assistant.

Kevin had barely just zipped up the duffel and slipped it onto his shoulder when he vanished with a pop of electricity. There were a few fleeting moments where Kevin felt himself almost tumbling through non-reality, but as soon as he felt as if he had flipped over, he was upright on two wobbly feet.

With a scowl, he stared around and then up at the sky. “That is your teleportation service? That should be a crime against humanity,” the young man tut-tuted as he readjusted his ruffled clothes and set his bag down on the solid earth. As a frequent flyer of teleportation channels, Kevin knew cheap technology when he experienced it. If he hadn’t been used to many of Syntech’s earlier systems, this likely would have left him disoriented or nauseous, but instead, he just found himself ruffled and bothered.

Overhead, the announcer was going through his daily platitudes. Kevin was fairly certain he’d heard some permutation of this speech before, so he just assumed it entailed event logistics. The young man tuned out most of it until he heard the listing of the island’s death zones. In his mind, he double-checked his own location and figured he probably had some time to relax before the borders of reality started to funnel him toward certain death.

After verifying that his surroundings weren’t inherently dangerous, Kevin crouched down and unzipped his supply bag. Almost immediately, a frown spread across his youthful visage. “That’s different.” He pushed his glasses up his freckled nose as he reached into the bag and drew the sword from his bag. It felt lighter than it had ever looked, but that begged the question of whether or not his possessions had been tampered with during teleportation. Hadn’t this looked different?

“Must have been the bad lighting in that little room,” Kevin muttered as he looked at the simplistic surface of the weapon. Even in just the moonlight, the blade had an almost ethereal sparkle to it. “I guess this won’t be too bad,” the ginger whispered as he reached into the bag and retrieved a scabbard that he also hadn’t noticed earlier.

After securing his means of defense, the young man opted to put away the sword after a few moments of silent consternation and debate with himself. With his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he set out into the cover of the forest. The note from Mr. Jak that he’d also found in his back pocket had mentioned something about ‘lay low and don’t be lubbocked. Get lubbock’d and you’re fired.’

Kevin understood the reference, even if he’d only been an intern that season.

 

[John Connor]

War is hell.

I received blows to my body, not once but TWICE in two days.

By the time the man in blue and red flew away, he left me with far more than scars to my revived body, I found myself lying against a hardened surface, but I couldn’t see it at the time, I’d been incredibly lucky somehow..

While keeping silent, he found himself humming an song in Latin, not knowing it directly.

((Rome is the the Light))

Firme nunc me spondeo
Fidelis tibi maneo

…
Bella priorum cara- *cough*, fuck… *cough- patria
Nunc et semper florens gloria
Pulchras terrae patriae!

I cough as I try to push up again. I must survive!
Fortes terrae pro homines
Romae noster aeterne

Cough, hack*

Vis cavire domum navium
Frusta ipsa impetur..

Sunt sine spe!

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(English lyrics)
Firmly I pledge
my loyalty to thee
Land of my Forefathers
forever brimming with glory

A land of beauty
home of the courageous
Our Eternal Rome
the might of enemy ships
Threatens us in vain
it is a hopeless quest
Turn away from deceit
and sweet delusions

For the trumpets of War
will call our Legions soon
And across the fatherland
a victory song will ring
Maybe I should have muttered that in my head.

“Get up solider, GET UP.” I swore i heard someone yell in my head.

What was the point if you were alone? That was my ego talking for once.

 

[King Ghidorah]

Rory had natural advantages when it came to the cold; he was a penguin. It came with the territory. However, there was Antarctic cold, there was government revenue-agent cold, and then there was, apparently, private-school kid with a magic sword cold.

The last one was the worst; Rory never would have guessed. He shivered as he waddled through the forest, trailing frost and shards of ice as he wended his way between the trees.

“Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow…. Fuck, d00d.”

Rory wasn’t having a good time: that preppy little doucherocket had bruised him up really good with his attempts at being a sword-guy, and although the power of grape-flavour had kept the bird from serious harm, his left side hurt like the dickens with every fallen leaf crunched under webbed foot.

Still, it could be worse – they’d left him for a corpsicle instead of, like, throwing his frozen body off a cliff, and the cold had at least kept the swelling down.

In retrospect, he probably should have stayed at the lake. It was nice by that lake. Boring, yeah, and he really hadn’t liked the way that turtle kept looking at him, but nice. Ish.

Actually, it was kinda crap. There was too much foam on the shore, and it was exactly the kind of place Rory would have dumped toxic waste, if he had found himself in possession of toxic waste that needed disposing of in a cheap and discreet manner.

Still, it was better than being kicked around by a child and a heavy-metal zombie. And what was up with that anyway?

Puzzled and disgruntled, the penguin continued on his way.

 

[The Man in Red]

THE NAZGUL COMES
#015 Chaos Agent Rory​

Leaving the mountains behind, Rory waddled for all he was worth through the grass and trees, headed for the hills -- quite literally! He'd had enough of the mountains; they were full of douchebags. D00ds in capes, flying children, and that crazy d00d with the melting face. What the hell, mang.

He was interrupted in his (proverbial) flight by a sudden...unease in the air. All the noise had suddenly died off. The critters in the grass, the insects buzzing around, the wind and even the few little streams and such had all gone dead silent. "What's goin' on, d-d00d...?" Rory hopped about in place, nervously looking around as he came to a slow, waddling stop.

It had already been cold before, but now it was cold cold. And not just like "o wow it's gonna snow" cold, but like...unnatural cold. Like "cosmic horrors beyond my comprehension" cold. His breath was even fogging in the air before him as it came in increasingly rapid pants from his beak.

Then there was a sound. A terrible, awful sound he really could have gone all of his life without hearing.

A piercing, earsplitting wail that chilled and shook him to his core. His spine went stiff and every nerve in his body told him one thing: RUN. HIDE.

And he did. He scrambled and flapped away, waddling and hopping and dove under a pile of brush at his first opportunity.

Just in time for the hoofbeats to start, thundering out from among the hills. The deadly cold grew worse, as the light of the mid-day sun overhead seemed to dim and wane, growing to a pale watery radiance as if everything was covered in a thick, choking haze. A suffocating weight and pressure seemed to blanket the environs as something came into view. All black, horse and rider, with a ragged and unkempt cloak shrouding the rider from head to toe.

​

With a harsh, squealing neigh the rider brought its horse to a halt, as it slowly peered around the area. For a long moment it just sat there, looking around, and Rory felt an uneasy presence take hold of him. Like this....like this horse-guy was calling to him, somehow, mang. Telling whoever was here to stop hiding and come out.

Then...the crazy d00d sniffed at the air. Once...twice...three times...just slowly turning this way and that. Then, finally, after what seemed like eons...it jolted about in the saddle as if catching wind of something. And with another awful, piercing shriek, it spurred its horse into motion again and thundered away like a gale, disappearing into the frees and mountains as swiftly as it had come.

Rory let out a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding, slowly crawling out of the underbrush. "Holy fuck, d00d..."

RESULTS

Rory escapes his near-brush with creeping doom unharmed.

....but he's probably going to be haunted with the feeling of dread, and be unable to shake off the bone-deep chill of death for the next few hours. That shit was spooky as hell, yo.

 

[Arthur Morgan]

They walked in silence for a time, following the babbling current of the stream. Coda’s steps lightened as the terrain shifted— the muddy river bank growing firmer and less likely to crumble underfoot as wildflowers sprouted in their path. The hum of insects and the swishing of reed-like plants, both sure-fire indications of the presence of a larger body of freshwater nearby, began to dissipate. It seemed that the further they went, the less defined the stream was becoming, until eventually it slowed to a tiny, pathetic trickle— dwindling down to almost nothing.

And then there was nothing. No more stream at all! No sliver of water beneath them or ahead of them or even behind for miles around: just trees, rolling hills, and the distant musical trilling of idle birdsong.

Oh, and the mountains.

Coda stared up at the jagged face of the mountain range looming ahead of them, then peered around at their more... immediate surroundings. Her brows knit together in confusion, mouth working silently as she took it all in, slowly processing the assault of visual information like a particularly old-fashioned machine.

Pale clouds swirled above the mountain's highest peaks, billowing across the sky with every harsh alpine gust. Far below, a meager forest of oak trees stirred, their yellow and red leaves rustling in the mountain's shadow. A blast of wind came, stronger than the rest, whistling around the trunks of those same trees— whipping the length of Coda's trench coat about her legs and tearing at her skin with its icy, grasping fingers.

It was all really, really familiar. Too familiar, one might say. Almost like—

Coda froze, realization breaking upon her face. She let out a long, exasperated groan, her hands reaching up to cover her eyes in disbelief.

"Oh my god," she muttered through her palms. Her shoulders drooped dejectedly as she slowly turned in a half-circle to confirm what she already feared, and sure enough… they had officially come full circle, and were back in the exact same spot from where Coda had started. "Oh, no…”

THIS is what you get for letting Nanaue handle the map, Coda thought sourly, rubbing at her eyes. It was a rather complicated endeavor, considering the luchador mask, but she managed. You have no one to blame but yourself!

Plop! A large, webbed hand landed on her shoulder quite suddenly, almost startling Coda out of her skin. She shifted under the heavy hand, nearly put on the attack, but paused as Nanaue merely... lightly patted her on the arm a few times, much like a parent soothing their child through a tantrum.

He said nothing, just held his presence there for a long moment, like a giant shark-shaped bastion of comfort. And after what seemed like an eternity of silence between them, Coda finally relaxed, releasing a slow exhale as her shoulders slumped– reluctantly glad that she wasn't alone, at the very least.

"I guess the situation isn't completely incapable of being salvaged," she muttered, shrugging off the Shark King's hand, though she still rewarded him with a small smile for the gesture. "I mean, at least we haven't run across any of these so-called uninvited guests yet. Although, maybe as an employee of the Carnivale Rosa I should be, uh… more concerned about that. What do you think, Nanaue?"

Nanaue appeared to ponder her question very seriously, his head bobbing up and down like a weighted yo-yo.

"Bad guests," he rumbled. "No good."

The gears visibly turning inside her head, Coda nodded slowly. "Right. And what should we do about those terrible, horrible, no good, very bad uninvited guests, hm?"

Rolling his shoulders, the Shark King's bulging muscles tensed and heaved, his jaw set and fierce. He brought his arm forward in a threatening gesture, pointing out towards the dense forest with a fierce glint in his cold, dark eyes.

"We make nom noms!"

Coda blinked, following the gesture with her gaze, before smiling faintly. "Interesting thought, Nanaue. That's definitely one solution! We'll need to stay vigilant and watch for any threats... or nom noms, as you say. Keep our heads on a swivel!"

King Shark did, in fact, make a great show of turning his head from side to side, inspecting the mountainside for any signs of peril. Coda gave a little snort, stifling it with the back of her fist, and then similarly directed her gaze to their surroundings, a contemplative gleam flickering in her eyes.

"I just hope we can find Zayin before something else finds him..."

 

[King Ghidorah]

Rory was beginning to suspect - uncharacteristically and in spite of his usual insistence that there was no such thing, really, if you looked at it right and maybe were just a little more patient, now put the gun down, mang - that he’d made a mistake.

As he fled, heedless of the pinched heat in his side, beyond the bucolic bounds of the forest and into the grasses and scattered stones of the rolling foothills, all of the many benefits to participating in the Deathgame began to seem very distant indeed.

The d00d on the horse, if indeed d00d it was, had not been a competitor: Rory was certain of it. Which meant they had to be one of the ‘uninvited guests’ which the Man in Red’s latest announcement had foretold.

Which meant there were more of them, or something like them.

Pausing to catch his labored breath, Rory glanced behind him, and wasn’t at all reassured to see that nothing was following him – after all, that only meant that he couldn’t see anything that was following him, and at the moment that wasn’t something he was willing to trust. Even his protective aura and energy-blasts, about which he’d been so pleased only a few short hours ago, now seemed a paltry thing – not crunked-out grape-juice after all, but merely gilded purple-drink.

A sudden breeze whipped over the hills, rustling the grasses and setting a flock of crows to flight from where they’d hidden among a copse of bushes. In spite of himself, and the fact that he’d long since thawed out, the penguin shivered, puffing out his feathers and shaking until settled once again; The phantom on horseback had left him with a chill that went beyond mere temperatures.

It reminded him of his old boss.

Now there was a terrifying thought – that d00d had never gotten angry, or impatient, or scared: only intent. The way the otherworldly cold clung to his soul, the way the phantom d00d’s presence bleached the light from the world, the call: it all combined to whisper a promise of relentless pursuit, without rest, or passion, or compromise, or appreciation for the subtleties of interpersonal commerce.

The penguin could only rejoice that, for the moment, apparently such pursuit wasn’t pointed at him. If that was the alternative, he’d take a dozen sword-wielding children riding d00ds in capes into battle, please and thank you mang with whipped cream on top, and he wouldn’t even complain.

 

[Ridley]

Flak growled, as he saw his quarry get away. This was like trying to catch retreating Orange Star all over again, except now he had to actually run after these guys himself, instead of yelling at someone to do it for him.

“Tch…” Flak added, taking a breath as his body was shaking, the adrenaline still flowing through his body as Trevor came behind him.

“Flak. Buddy. He’s gone.” The Shadowy assassin spoke, softly, like he was trying to avoid angering someone.

Flak Groaned, sighed, and then gave a deep, full-belly laugh.

“Hehehehaha! Trev, ol’ buddy! Did you see how we ran! Let’s have some more o’ that! Haha!” The behemoth of a man chuckled, before giving Trez a big pat on the back that made a visible thud.

Shinku blinked, “I thought you’d be angry he got away.”

“I mean, sure, but there’s other battlefields, other battles, ya know? And this kinda thing is Exactly what I came here for! I mean, really, I’m here ‘cause Ridley told me too, ope…”

Flak adjusted his helmet, no longer a protective steel, which probably explained the stars he was seein’, but now a kid-friendly foam. It had took him a while to realize the man in Red had swapped it out mid-competition, and it had better get back to him after the competition in mint condition!

“Lord Ridley. I meant. Leader of WYVERN. You know the guy?” Flak would ask, though Shinku gave a shake of his head.

“Really great guy. Gave me a post to beat up whoever I want, s’long as they don’t outrank me. Lots of benefits. Dental. You should look ‘em up if you end up having the time! Who knows?”

Trevor avoided his eyes, as Flak’s smile grew bright. “‘Course, right now, that don’t matter. Might be a WYVERN commander, but right now? We’re the army of Flak and Trevor! That’s right! We’re the Flavor army!”

“The Flavor…?” Trevor asked, before a smile stretched across his face. The Assassin actually offered a short laugh, probably because he’d never been in an army named this Awesome before.

“Sure, then. We’re the Flavor Army! Well… Do you have a plan for what comes next, Flak?”

“Well, like always, we’ll scout out the terrain, capture the valuable stuff, and then crush our enemy at the end! It’s like any battlemap!” Flak volunteered with an award-winning smile. “And ain’t no Mid-boss or nothin’ getting in our way!”

"Oh, so you knew his name?" Trevor asked, surprised.

"Who's name?"

 

[The Man in Red]

A CROWN IS WARRANTED WITH STRENGTH
#009 Vitallion​

As Vitallion weakly trudged through the increasingly mountainous terrain, his strength threatening to leave him with every step, it was only his sheer willpower than kept him marching along steadily.

....though speaking of marching, what was that sound? It sounded like...like...

For some reason he couldn't explain, the legatus's blood ran cold. He stopped in his tracks, looking around wildly for some sign of what he was hearing. The distant rumble and thunder of countless marching feet. The sound of a war horn split the sky, and literal thunder rumbled in the sky overhead, a stormfront rolling in with an alarming suddenness from out of the mountains.

Vitallion took a staggering step back, his flagging strength seeming to desert him altogether. "By the gods..."

He turned and hobbled away, running with all the speed he could muster. For before him, in the canyons, he could now see the source of the noise.

​

A goliath of a man, his armor and cloak blemished and tarnished from their once regal and noble design but still holding true to the garb of a warrior. A wild mane of hair, long since gone silver and gray from age, flaring out behind him like a second cape. Clutched in his hands was a massive axe, one of its double-sided heads fractured and broken off, the remainder of its shape scarred and scorched and warped from countless eons of battle.

And his face...scarred and marred by battle, weathered and creased with age, skin gone leathery and tanned from a hard and brutal life...but his eyes. Piercingly bright, blazing out from under scraggly, silver brows as he marched resolutely forward. Around his shoulders, a massive goliath of spectral, white and gold flame clung to him, claws and fangs biting into and anchored in his flesh and ruined armor.

Arrayed around and behind him, marching in seamless formation, were legions of shadows and spectral figures. Warriors, soldiers, knights, vagabonds and stragglers with no other purpose, gathered under his banner. All of them long since dead and gone, lingering on only in spirit, as echoes and memories of wars past, still unable to truly leave their lord until he, too, fell and joined them.

The earth trembled underfoot as the grand procession marched onward through the canyons, their very presence leaving a salty tang of iron and blood, instilling a sense of dread and unease as if a wild beast was rampaging through the area, and trampling any trace of greenery into mush and paste.

A great warhorn blast went up, and the mountains trembled, as the great white lion around the lord's shoulders roared, eyes blazing red and maw dripping noxious purple ichor.

Vitallion felt dizzy, a maddening urge taking hold of him to leap out of his hiding place and join the procession. To throw away this contest, give up on his own aspirations, and fall in line among the ranks of a true warrior.

....but he held. Through the pounding in his head and the aching in his heart, he held, until the grand, dreadful procession had passed, leaving the legatus shaken and sweating, as he hung his head and wept. Wept at the majesty and unfathomable devotion he had just witnessed.

RESULTS

Vitallion escapes his brush with the lords unharmed. Though he will suffer from an aching, heart-wrenching longing and urge to prove himself in battle.

 

[John Connor]

Vatallion had one hell of a day today.

Moving his hurt self along, he wasn’t sure what was keeping him going besides willpower these days.

He ran across a giant man with a axe and purple goo, and soldiers of every race and age following him, only dead. The goliath of a man blew a war horn and the Roman felt the urge to join the fight, but it tempted him so, but he never gave up his hiding spot. He bit his tongue lightly, still shaking from anything but being outmatched in a fight.

Forcing himself to run away was hard. As he slowly moved, was this man scared for once in his life? He gritted his teeth, he seemed to suck any sense of fear down his throat.
He felt water coming down his eyes.

He shook them off before taking a breath for a second before looking over at the map again before following his finger around until he found a place on there.

 

[Roy Mustang]

Armstrong’s uniform hung loose around his shoulders, unbuttoned at the front. his undershirt had been likewise sacrificed for enough cloth to keep the injuries from remaining exposed. He huffed a faint grunt of discomfort as he stepped to the top of the overlook. Painful, but thanks to Miss Abernathy’s assistance, not anywhere near the detriment they could have posed untreated. There would be many more bouts to come before the competition came to its resolution. He could hardly afford to begin slowing yet!

“Well, Miss Lauren, It would appear we have thus far eluded further challengers. Whether for good or for ill I cannot yet say…” He mused, one hand to his chin as he stared out over the distance, well aware of the camera drone that was sweeping by for a landscape shot.

“Of course that’s a good thing.” Lauren was breathing a little heavier than him as she caught up. Though uninjured, she was having to move a bit quicker to keep pace with the state alchemist’s massive strides. In the afternoon sun, the distance was starting to make itself known.

“Less people trying to kill you is pretty much always a good thing.” she stated, though her tone didn’t hold any real judgment, merely observation.

“Perhaps.” Armstrong crossed his arms, brow furrowed, “However. We cannot avoid the nature of this challenge forever. Sooner or later we will encounter more contestants, and though we may be sympathetic to their plight, we are intended to engage them in conflict. Given that conflict is a must, I would much prefer a contest of skills to skullduggery.”

Lauren shrugged, “Sure, sure. Feel free to give away our position before the fight starts if it’ll make you feel better.”

Armstrong turned to her with a faint chuckle, “Honorable contest does not require foolishness. I have no desire to defeat the enemy through underhanded means, but I will not pass up a sound tactical stratagem for the sake of mere grandstanding.”

“Oh yeah? Guess you’ve gotta be somewhat strategic to be an officer.” Lauren murmured, fishing in her coat for a smoke.

“Quite!”

“So what’s the move, then?” she asked casually, “if it’s not keep your head down and wait for a lot of the hotheads to blow over?”

“Momentum.” Armstrong stated with confidence, “The driving force of forward progress is the key to any true success in conflicts such as this. Those that wander aimlessly are serving only to delay their demise. Those aiming to succeed will have a purpose to their journey and improve their own chances before the inevitable conflict finds them.”

“Our encounter from moments past stands as testament to this. As contestants we are expected to be adversaries Indeed, I find it nigh impossible that our host would allow a cooperative force to triumph in this conflict. However, we recognized that immediate hostilities stood to the benefit of neither party, and a truce was struck.”

“Guess so. Seems more like common sense to me, but I think I get your point.”

“Very good!” Armstrong struck a pose, flexing briefly, “Then we must move with speed in the pursuit of our next goal. My indomitable will shall direct us to greatness!”

“Greatness, huh?” Lauren’s smoke shifted slightly in her mouth, “And what’s that mean right now?”

Armstrong placed thumb and forefinger to his chin, sparkling as he took the position. “That, Miss Lauren, is our next objective!”

 

[Lilith]

Absent of motion, Lilith wistfully gazed at the briny blustering sea below. Her windswept hair fluttered away from the inviting precipice, a sputtering flame of silky shadow.

It's a long way down.

The cliff beckoned the pale woman, subjugating her in a statuesque stupor. Faceless, featureless, the stygian ocean's reflection bored into her for an eternity, longing for the moment it would reclaim her. Just one step over the edge.

The decision didn't linger in her paralyzed mind forever. As dawn emerged, it dispelled her tenebrous hallucination, clarifying the onyx haze drifting beneath her. This was not her familiar origin, but a crude, misshapen facsimile. Instead, she remembered these waters for an entirely wrong reason.

Tainted violet swill wriggling into the indigo shores, the same stew of colors she witnessed in Nausicaa that swallowed a city out of the sky. She loathed to admit it, but there was one good thing about the Unmaking. It was a singular force for sapients to channel their hatred towards. Much like herself. Otherwise, the two couldn't be more contradictory, in her opinion anyways. I will be the most reviled, my condemnation will be without equal, I will receive the greatest abhorrence, because…

It's the only way I can live.

Nobody mourns for a plucked seed yet to sprout. It must be allowed to germinate, bloom, and proliferate. It must be cherished and admired by many, raising itself above the surrounding flowers. After the revered plant is mature, it is suitable to burn from the roots, igniting its stem and torching its petals. Only then will people grieve. The billowing pyre should be concentrated, however, prohibited from razing the entire field. The cinders' purpose is to cultivate growth within those closest to it, so that the cycle may repeat ad infinitum.

Relentless despair and transcendent hope require each other to flourish. A universe devoid of either would cease to have meaning. Chaos and anarchy are the natural order, there is no final outcome. That's what everyone else fails to recognize. The only value she saw in ideological arms races was neverending self-gratification.

On that topic, and before an erratic gust could send her plummeting to premature demise, she pivoted on her bare heel and began her exploits along the island's outskirts, probing for a plethora of ways to get her fix. All ripe for the taking.

 

[Eddie the Head]

The hiss of pain regurgitating from his tonsils narrated Eddie's experience of this wasteland. The battlefield lay empty, no ruin, no destruction, no lumps of flesh resting on the ground for the ghoul to snack.

Eddie’s head was a bit rattled, but the walking corpse thought he heard the child say that he was a trained hitman. His nostrils scrunched in befuddled disbelief before he drew in a breath to his pre-collapsed lungs and considered the thought. The child, someone the corpse had sided with since he thought was merely at the wrong place and the wrong time, was a trained assassin. The thought set in.

Then, the fatigued veteran decided he didn’t quite care if he believed the fact or not.

They were in the shit of it.

Masters of basic addition, sword plus shield, you plus me equals a better chance of survival. Eddie considered his need for carnage. The drooling goop that now slithered with his desire for food. Hunger… Was it something he would succumb to?

Vacuous eyes fell on the young hitman’s jugular. Pulsing with fresh blood, bringing warmth to the raw meat. Children made the most unsuspecting prey. Always unaware of the sticky horrors of what a real monster holds within.

He could make it quick. It would even be a mercy given the circumstances… Yet, the boy held the blade.

Hungry.

Hungry.

He heard the gothic choral chant pound in his ears, as though singing from a satanic church, or clanging from the underbelly of Hell. He felt his jaw chatter as though imagining what it was ripping into.

Yet, distraction in the form of a surferbro Penguin had been delivered before a decision could be made.

…

Eddie now found himself looking at the boy with a different deliberation. The skin around his jawbone rattled loosely around the words while one of his ghastly hands felt around beneath the redcoat lapel. “I’m inclined to believe you’re either good luck or bad luck.”

There was a rattling before the weathered soldier procured a crumpled self-rolled tobacco stick and placed it into the corner most crevice of his mouth before realizing he didn’t have a light and released a discouraged exhale.

“Well, which is it?” Five’s voice chirped with a youthful curiosity and an undertone of apprehension that might have been a side effect of hitman’s instinct.

A brief pause. “I haven’t decided yet.” Eddie’s maw warbled glumly.

Five’s eyes traced the corpse’s villainous face. Yet, at present, all he sensed from the soldier was a tired sensation of macabre emanating from the creature.

“Well, I mean…” Five considered his words with a little bit more… Potential, though the youthful ramble sang on. “To be totally fair, I didn’t think I recognized you. But now, it totally hit me. Your outfit changed and you’re not really quoting Shakespeare with your fists but you’re definitely him.”

“Him… Who?” As though an offkey chord had been played, Eddie’s eyes narrowed and suddenly the world around them grew still with mutual suspicion.

Five fought the immediate urge to retract the words that had caused his companion reproach. “I just meant, I didn’t initially realize we’d met before.”

“We’ve met?” Eddie echoed while the translucent pukey skin pulled around his raised brows.

“Yeah you were uh, method acting.” Though this could also be simply another play, and Eddie had simply donned new attire. Five had imposed the humanity upon the undead, a lofty strategy that seemed to be playing out. The grandpa’s mind took him further into the process, “Hey, is that an authentic piece you’re wearing?”

Five’s fingers were on the redcoat’s sleeve and he held the tapered fabric between his fingertips. “Strange, I thought it would breathe less.”

“Textiles.” Eddie groaned again, considering the child’s incessant preaching. The creature took an imaginary drag on his unlit cigarette and looked on the empty horizon as though it were full of memories that would never leave the old soldier’s head.

“Huh.” The schoolboy obliged, reconsidering his own attire.

“Misssster Five,” Eddie turned his head with energy, as though renewed by some unknown force of swirling inspiration, “Please tell me about this other version of myself.”

Five was surprised the corpse was unaware. “Well uh, I only met you for a moment before it all-”

“I’m NOT him!” Eddie exploded with outrage.

“You mean he’s not you?” Five quipped, realizing this was a bad time to correct a walking corpse and instead rectified his words, “Well of course not, you’re a character.”

“A… Character huh?” the soldier’s ear buzzed with an acute faintness. Imperceivable consideration fell on the stoic lines of his face. He perceived the child with innocence. That had been what made him spare the boy initially.

He had received only one order: To kill. Yet who had commanded it? His mind reached for the question, tendrils into the blackest night. Not knowing which direction to pull the answer from.

Beside him sat a strange enigma almost as odd as himself. One who could fight well.

Yet, a child still. The singular loophole to his undying command.

The soldier knew what a war crime was. It was sitting next to him. He’d chosen not to do it. Maybe there was some humanity left in his decaying bones afterall.

Five held his breath. Within the kid an entire lifetime had been lived, a human capable of feeling curiosity for his particular artistic darkness. Perhaps even a little empathy. Man this guy must really be confused.

“Tell me about him.” Eddie requested again, as though asking a musician to play a familiar tune on a guitar fireside. Time seemed to slow around them with this request.

“Well, to start,” Five began with unabashed honesty, “I liked the other guy better, he was more fun.”

“More fun?” Eddie echoed shrewdly, pulling his taught jaw against the peeling cigarette.

“Uh yeah, he knew poetry and stuff. Classic literature.” He added boyishly, “You know those work better when you light them.”

Five began to flail his sword around, “What’s That look about? A little bolt of lightning never hurt anybody.”

Eddie’s eyes looked exasperated, yet he did not shy away from the sword inches from his neck. He offered a shake of his head, indicating, I don’t fucking think so.

Five shrugged “Fine, your choice.” And never having the talent to stay silent, or sit still, “So what type of paradox are you?”

Eddie grunted questioningly, wondering if he ever stopped talking, “Hmph?”

“Like what type of being are you? Pardon the observation but, you appear to be a living corpse. Which, well, I suppose I’ve seen weirder. Do you have multiple minds trapped in there or… how did you come to be?”

“You appear to ask about my other fragments, not me.” Eddie reflected. “I don’t have the answers you’re looking for. I came here to battle and to feed.”

The two murderers in a pod stayed silent for a moment. Five had to hold himself back from asking exactly what his companion ate. He didn’t think he wanted to know the answer.

Eddie licked his lips, unsatisfied with the exact end of their conversation. He knew the boy had better taste than that. So, the soldier granted an offering.

Eddie had been covered in it, painted by the soot of war and touched by the curse of death. However, those who asked for art, and praised it, would get what they desired. For, one they read deep enough into a man’s heart, they would find one thing.

Post battle, it was ritualistic to speak in honey’s sweet remembrance so as to never poison the dead.

“Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.” [Yeats]

 

[Zayin]

After no small amount of time of aimless traveling, Zayin and his new companion decided to take a little break. Though he still had many of his innate resistances, the living weapon still found himself getting unusually tired after a long walk, and as Mr Satan was just a human, he guessed that he must have been feeling the same. In spite of this, the two of them were putting on brave faces in front of one another, pretending to be raring to go in spite of the exhaustion that was undoubtedly building, right up until they came to a small cliff.

“You feeling up to this climb?” The angel asked, trying to disguise the panting in his breath. The cliff face couldn’t have been more than a couple metres tall, usually an effortless climb for the two of them, but in this moment it seemed like a colossal mountain to the pair.

“’Course I am.” The martial artist replied, forcing a grin. “If you need a break, though…”

“What? A break?” Zayin said, suppressing a wheeze. “I don’t need it. But… it could give us a tactical advantage to stop, perhaps…”

There was little logic to his reasoning, but Mr Satan nodded sagely at the idea. Thanking their respective divinities, the contestants settled down onto a pair of rocks facing one another, breathing simultaneous silent sighs of relief. Silence hung in the air between them for a few moments, neither one knowing quite what to say to the other.

“So…” The hero began. “I read up on you a little bit in the preshow…”

“Wha-? You can do that?” The world champion gawped, breaking into a cold sweat as his jaw threatened to hit the ground. Zayin raised a confused eyebrow at his reaction and the martial artist quickly collected himself as best as he could and cleared his throat. “What did you read about me?”

“It was really impressive, actually.” The living weapon said appreciatively, his eyes lighting up a little more than usual. “I read that you saved the world multiple times against threats from beyond.”

“Gahahaha, well those weren’t just words. It’s all true.” Mr Satan boasted, his nerves switching in an instant to overwhelming confidence as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Cell, Buu, you’re looking at the guy who defeated them to save Earth.”

“Wow…” Zayin murmured, amazed as he ate up the martial artist's declaration, not questioning it for a moment. “What’s a Cell or a Buu?”

“Pretty much some of the strongest guys ever to come to Earth - except for me of course - and dangers to every man, woman and child. So, naturally, I had to put a stop to them.” The champ continued to brag. Without any way to verify these claims, and no reason to doubt the man before him, the angel could only nod wide-eyed at his stories.

“That’s incredible.” The living weapon gasped. “I mean, I’ve fought dangerous beings from beyond before, but that sounds like it’s on a whole different level. Did you do it alone?”

Silence hung in the air for an awkwardly long amount of time as Mr Satan seemed to mull over his answer, the pair staring dead at one another for what seemed like an eternity.

“Yes.”

“Wooooow.” Zayin gushed. Ever the sucker for heroism, he naively believed the tall tales without question. “Even among the greatest heroes of my world, that’s something else. You have to tell me all about it.”

“You bet! It all star-” Before he could finish his sentence, the champion’s stomach let out a legendary rumble, cutting him off. “Uh… sorry, where was I?”

“Oh, that reminds me actually.” The angel said, rummaging through his duffel bag and pulling out his MREs. “I don’t actually eat, see, so if you want my food…”

“Oh, no I couldn’t.”

“I insist.” Zayin said, pushing the food towards Mr Satan.

“Ohhh… Alright.” The martial artist replied, caving in and accepting the food gratefully. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” The hero nodded, smiling warmly at his new companion. “I know that we won’t be allies forever, but you’re a hero, through and through. Even if helping you out leads to my loss in the future, I’m content with that.”

Mr Satan was speechless for a second, a strange look crossing his face as he tore open one of the MREs and began to dig in. “Thanks, Pal…. y’know what, I think I owe you a little honesty.”

“Oh… really?” Zayin asked, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“When I said I didn’t need a break before… I… I actually needed a little one. Just a little one.” The world champion admittedly solemnly.

Another long silence hung over the pair as the angel suppressed a laugh.

“Me too, Mr Satan. Me too.”

 

[The Man in Red]

Face-off
#003 Alex Louis Armstrong & #012 Laurentius Abernathy VS #015 Chaos Agent Rory​

Among the rolling hills just shy of the island's swamplands, the ground suddenly trembled and shuddered, as what must have been a small bomb went off. The faint sounds of a penguin shrieking and honking in abject and violent despair and fright echoed shortly afterward.

The camera drone in the region was a bit delayed in its arrival to the scene, zooming in on the confrontation just in time to see Rory frantically hopping and waddling away from the hulking form of Armstrong as he strode boldly after him, raining down fist after mighty fist in an effort to squash the poor flightless bird into the dirt.

"Chill out, d00d!" Rory squawked. "I was only trying to sneak up on you!"

"Such underhanded tactics are deplorable, even in a contest like this!" Armstrong bellowed in response, as he took several quick steps forward and lashed out with a swiping paw, grabbing the penguin about his neck like a stuffed toy. The muffled, muted "GAWP" that went up from him would have probably been funnier without the context of overwhelming violence at hand to dampen the mood.

Struggling and squirming in the deathgrip the Strongarm Alchemist held him in, Rory could only stare in momentary dread as he watched almost as if in slow motion the man's other massive fist raising up to deliver a face-smashing blow. His eyes bugged out and he redoubled his efforts, flapping and slapping at Armstrong's meaty mitt for all he was worth.

Then something happened. Something truly, undeniably, sickeningly awful happened. Rory...had an idea.

"Yo!" He wheezed, throwing both of his flippers up. "Hold up, mang! Hold up! I got...I got something to offer you d00ds!"

In spite of himself, Armstrong's already-flying punch halted in midair, mere inches from the flightless bird's face. Though the expression didn't change, one eyebrow did slightly curl up in a silent "I'm listening." manner.

Laura, finally catching up to the insanity, just took several deep breaths before speaking up herself. "Don't tell me you're actually going to listen to this guy?" She looked between Armstrong and Rory several times in quick success. "You are."

Rory curled his flippers down around Armstrong's hand, trying to heft himself up just a bit to take the pressure off his poor windpipe. "Alright, d00ds, so listen, it goes like this..." And his mind raced, desperately trying to come up with some way he could weasel his way out of this one. "...so, this whole place is all kinds of crazy, right? There's weird kids with swords, and d00ds with capes, and some crazy d00d on a horse scaring the hell out of everyone." He gestured vaguely with a flipper back toward where he'd hastily retreated from.

"Yes, there are a lot of...strange people here," Laura said flatly. "It seems to be the nature of the game."

"Indeed," Armstrong rumbled. "A competition like this attracts plenty of deranged sorts all on its own, to say nothing of those they convince to join otherwise. What of it?"

Rory audibly gulped. "So like...I'm just a little bird, mang." He gestured at himself. "Just a little guy, y'know? Rory the penguin; I just sell stuff, d00ds! I wouldn't hurt a fly. S-So, uh...here's the deal: you just put me down and let me go, and we can all go try and find some of the actually nasty, bad d00ds around here and take care of them. No need to waste any more time and strength on me when there's all that bad weirdness still around, right, mang?"

Laura groaned, bringing a hand up to her eyes. "....please don't tell me you're buying any of this," she muttered, slowly turning to Armstrong. "He's clearly just saying anything to make you nut pulverize him."

"No, no, really, d00ds! Honest! Cross my hearts and hope to die!"

Armstrong's face was unreadable, his eyes cast in shadow, as he seemed to be deliberating and deciding on his current course of action. But eventually, his expression slowly hardened. "You make a convincing argument..." he rumbled, his voice uncharacteristically dropping from its normally proud, boisterous tone to one that was dark and foreboding. "...however." And he lifted his face just slightly, his bright blue eyes filled with a mirthless sort of glare. "If you really are so harmless, then you wouldn't be of very much use in such a task as thinning out the competition."

Rory squawked in genuine despair and surprise, the look on the state alchemist's face filling him with a dread as all-consuming as the hand still clutched around his neck. "N-No way, d00d...come on, I'm tryin' to be generous here!"

"Unfortunately...I am not." And Armstrong's fist continued on its trajectory, impacting the penguin's skull with all the force of an artillery shell.

Like a shot from a gun, Rory was launched from Armstrong's hand, fist-powered flight sending him tumbling and bouncing along the grassy ground with several unpleasant sounding bumps, smacks, cracks and honking noises before he ultimately came to a halt halfway up a gentle hillside incline. "Gwak...jibbers crabst, d00d..."

Armstrong wasn't one to wait for his foe to regain their senses, however, and before the penguin could even re-orient to which way was 'up' the Strongarm Alchemist was already in action again. He dropped to one knee, slamming his fingertips into the earth, and with a flurry of motion used his nails to claw and dig out intricate symbols into the grass and dirt.

Laura, for her part, simply took a few steps aside from the display, flicking her cigarette away. "Guess if we're finishing this little bird off, I better give you some cover, big guy..." she murmured. She dropped down to a crouch, digging among her supplies for something...

...just as Rory scrambled to his feet, swaying and staggering unsteadily as he tried to remember if he had, in fact, gotten the license number of that garbage truck. He tried to shake his stupor off just in time to come beak to skull with a grim grinning ghost, clawing its way out of the ground. "Holy shit, d00d!" the penguin shrieked, as several more spectres and relics of Death Game's past started to claw and burst their way into the limelight again.

Trapped among a mob of howling, yowling, moaning, clawing, biting and gnawing spirits, Rory hopped and skedaddled around frantically. In his blind panic of the moment, it took him an uncomfortably long time to remember his secret weapon. The purple drink.

With a screeching noise that would have been more at home coming from an angry falcon in mid-dive, Rory threw up both flippers as a coruscating aura of violet and black flame burst up around him. "Personal space, d00ds!" he yowled, as the aura exploded outward, not unlike the shockwave of a bomb going off. The specters and ghouls were blasted aside, crumbling back into bones and dust as the hit the ground and rocks.

....the entire affair gave Armstrong time to finish his artistry. "Finally finished..." he rumbled. "...and now you, unfortunate fowl, shall bear witness to the glorious legacy of the Armstrong Family's traditions!" He slammed both fists together, sparks quite literally flying as his eyes sparkled and shone. "Improvisation! Artistry!" And drawing back one fist, he drove it into the earth before him, the lines of his hastily inscribed work -- an alchemical circle, as it turned out -- lighting up with an electric blue glow. "Alchemy!"

The earth ruptured and split open, the yawning fissure snaking across the ground toward the winded Rory, before erupting in a massive plume of dirt and debris as a massive fist of stone burst forth, striking the penguin with bone-jarring force and launching him toward the distant horizons.

RESULTS

Armstrong used one application of Focus
Laura used one application of Focus
Rory was pressured into using one application of focus

Rory suffers a crippling blow to the facial region courtesy of Armstrong (Minor Injury), and suffers catastrophic damage to his general everything from being titan fisted into next millennium (Major Injury altogether)