DGS3 -- Day 2, Phase 1

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The Man in Red

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Day 2, Phase 1
Morning Phase: 0600 to 1200​

"Good morning down there! How's everyone holding up? Well, I trust! Good!"

"It seems we've had another poor soul pass on in the night, and in quite a momentous way, no less! Let's take a moment to reflect on this, shall we...?"

#009 Vitallion
The Nazgul​

"That's right; one of your fellow competitors died heroically, savagely punching a literal spirit of malice and fear to death. Let's have some applause."

"Mmm....beyond that, though, there is some pertinent news regarding those little party crashers. We've finished our developments up here and have something of....well, let's say we figured out how to utilize the suppression technology in your lovely little bowties in a more aggressive fashion. How do you all like orbital pulse cannons? It won't weaken them very much, it should slow them down and stop them wandering all about like they own the place! Just...let's hope none of you are particularly allergic to a little radiation. We haven't quite tested it fully. Or at all."

"But enough about that; there's something else to worry about: dead zones! I hope you've been keeping an eye on those maps, things are about to start getting...unpleasant down there."
A 11
A 12
A 13
B 2
B 3
B 13
C 3
C 4
E 2
E 14
F 14
G 2
H 14
I 14
J 7
J 11
J 12
J 13

"Ah, and make sure you mind the water out there. That unpleasantness you saw off the coast when this event started? It's spreading quite rapidly through the water, now, thanks to all that rain the fast little while. I would refrain from indulging any sudden urges to swim, if I were you."

"....oh, yes. And one last thing: we've taken a little time to set up something special for you. Let's call it....mmm....a safe house? No, not flashy enough....bah. You'll find it on E 7. First one there gets to claim it!"


NPC Movement Updates
Mister Satan is fine! You didn't think nearly having his head taken off would put down THE CHAMP did you?!
Blaidd silently lurks among the woods and hills, carefully picking around the increasingly dangerous environs.
Kiryu & Majima debate the finer points of fashion; would jorts be unreasonable for a self-respecting Yakuza to wear?
Superman broods majestically swamps and hills.


Bulletins and Updates
  • Bosses Update -- This phase is the last time the bosses will move. After this, they will be pinned down to a single location, as well as slightly suppressed and weakened. From here on out, they can be easily avoided or challenged.
  • Weather -- The rain will continue unabated throughout the morning, though will begin to lighten and ease off as the sun fully rises.
  • Unmaking -- Any square on the map which has any visible water in it, as well as the areas around the 'lair' of the remaining bosses, will now be sporting telltale and rather worrying traces of corruption and unmaking activity. Local flora and fauna will begin to rapidly mutate and grow aggressive, and other nastiness will be rampant. This is only sure to get worse from here.
  • Landmark -- The mentioned safehouse on E 7 is the first landmark location of the game. It will confer some benefit on whoever claims it. Good luck!
 

The Man in Red

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(NOT SO) SAFE HOUSE
#004 Michael Myers, #015 Chaos Agent Rory​

Slowly stalking out of the mist and rain, the hulking and eerily silent form of Michael Myers stepped into the glow of lights affixed to the side of a small cave opening carved into the mountainside. The masked killer tilted his head back, looking up and around for any sign of cameras, before looking back into the yawning tunnel ahead of him. He stood still for a long moment, as if in some mockery of actually thinking, then took a step forward...

...and the earth under his feet trembled.

Myers tilted his head slightly, as if in confusion or curiosity.

The earth trembled again, more strongly this time.

Slowly, the masked killer turned in place, looking back behind him out into the trees and swamplands behind him, scanning the treeline.

And then the glow of golden light shone out through the mist. Two points of it, blazing and gleaming like searchlights, as the trembling and shaking of the ground grew more pronounced. And then the 40-foot goliath form of the Franky Shogun hove into view, stomping along at a great pace.

"Get outta here, d00d!" Rory's voice squawked over the loudspeakers of the massive Iron Pirate. "This place is mine, mang!"

Myers just slowly tilted his head in the opposite direction. His gaze slowly rolled down to the shield on his arm....and then back up the encroaching armored behemoth before him. His chest rose and fell once, as if in some approximation of sight...then one of the gems on the gilded shield lit up with a deep blue glow, a pulsing wave of light washing over the masked killer's body, taking the shape of a shimmering, phantom knife in his empty hand. And rather than doing anything sensible, he just advanced forward.

"Fine. Your funeral, d00d!"

And the Franky Shogun lurched forward, one massive arm drawing back to deliver the mother of all haymakers to the comparatively pint-sized serial killer before him. Metal servos hissed and energy crackled and whined within the frame of the armored goliath as it struck out, throwing a devastating blow that whooshed through the air with a gale all of its own making.

It met the upraised shield Myers held forth, and the resulting shockwave blew back the rain and fog in the vicinity. One of the lights in the nearby tunnel cracked, weakly flickering out. The ground beneath Myers' feet cracked, caving in slightly, but otherwise the killer stood firm. Tilting his head slightly, he just pushed back against the overbearing force, and took a step forward. His phantom knife-wielding arm raised up, and he stabbed forward, cutting in a downward arc, and biting into one of the metallic fingers of the Shogun's fist.

It was such a tiny scratch in the grand scheme of things it was inconsequential, but as the giant robot drew its fist back, Myers hung on, anchored in place by his stabbed knife. And then he started to move, stabbing and carving with the knife to generate new anchor points and handholds as he went, scaling the arm of the Franky Shogun like some comically nightmarish rock climbing experience.

"Yo, what the fuck, mang! Get off!"

And Rory waggled and shook the arm of the robot, trying to dislodge the killer. But Myers stubbornly held fast, the thrashing about only serving to smear more charred, cooked flesh and blood all over the Shogun's gleaming frame.

"Gross, d00d."

Then the unthinkable happened. Rory blinked, screwing his eyes shut as a wave of coughing and grimacing from his wounds came over him. When he looked up again....Myers had vanished. Just fucking gone, on every sensor the Shogun had. "What the...how the...what?!"

He frantically looked around, checking and double checking monitors and scanners and sensors, even as the Franky Shogun itself turned and wobbled in place, frantically trying to find some trace of where the serial killer had got to.

Then Rory looked up again, out of the 'main' cameras that were the Shogun's eyes -- and his heart leapt into his throat with a very undignified, high-pitched shrieking honk. He was right there. The sodden, soggy, charred and bloodied mask Myers wore -- was right. Fucking. There. Face to eyes with the Shogun's eye, just...staring. With a whiplash motion, the shield in his arm came up and collided with the Shogun's right eye, cracking it and filling that camera feed with static.

And Myers vanished again.

"Aw, come on, d00d! This isn't right! This isn't right at all, mang!" Rory croaked.

He plodded the robot forward, toward the mouth of the cave, hoping against hope maybe some light would help flush out where Myers had fucking scurried off to this time.

Then he heard it. A groaning of stressed metal. The hatch of the cockpit visibly shuddered and whined, hinges and latches squeaking and groaning as something was forced into the miniscule gap around its edges. A dull, glimmering blue, slowly but incessantly prying its way deeper in, jerking side to side and working much like a crowbar.

"Ah, hell no, d00d! Get off! GET OFF!"

And with desperation-induced aplomb, Rory set to the controls, slapping buttons and pulling levers at a dizzying speed, ignoring the screaming protests of his bruised, burned and battered body.

The Franky Shogun responded in kind, eyes blazing with gold fury as one arm reached up over its shoulder. "FRAAAAAAN-KEN!" the behemoth's synthesized voice announced to the world as it drew the colossal sword it bore. Though lacking in grace and any kind of finesse, it whipped the massive blade around and slammed it against its own chest, producing a sound not unlike a ringing bell. Rory rattled and bounced around within the cockpit, but Myers himself was crushed against the armored hull of the Shogun and bounced off, tumbling toward the ground below.

Only to be caught, mid-air, by the pulverizing fist of the Franky Shogun as it swung into a downward-arcing hook, the sound of the impact not unlike a wrecking ball plowing through a wooden house. Myers was rocketed into the ground, hitting it with enough force to shatter the glowing aura around his body as the matching gem in the shield burned out, going dull and black.

"GENERAL.....!" the voice of the Shogun bellowed out to the heavens, raising both arms above its head.

Myers slowly pushed himself to his knees.

"....OMOMI!" And the armored goliath simply tipped forward, like a falling tree, and toppled over to land on top of the serial killer, with a truly earth-shaking impact. The ground splintered and cracked, chunks of rubble and plumes of water launching toward the sky as the nearby mountains shuddered.

As Rory forced the Shogun to rise back up, he observed with some satisfaction that his foe had been left in a perfectly Michael Myers-shaped hole at the bottom of a much larger crater in the earth, a weak green glow around his body splintering away to nothing. It was hard to tell if he was still alive, with how much he...didn't emote. Like, at all. But Rory wasn't the type of penguin who was going to stick around to find out. He was out, mang.


Michael Myers used the Fire Emblem, and was pressed into using it again
Rory used one application of Focus

The Franky Shogun takes a few nicks and stab wounds, and its cockpit door has been warped and half-broken open, but it otherwise remains undamaged.
Rory escapes unharmed (physically, at least; that psychological damage Myers caused might linger for a while, though)
Myers suffers from a veritable pulverization of his everything, only saved by the protective qualities of the Fire Emblem; most bones will be cracked or fractured in some way, if not outright broken (Insane Injury)

Rory claims the Safehouse
 
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Sandor Clegane

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Nanaue watched Hercule, whose breathing had fallen into a quiet arrhythmic ordeal, and salivated. Concurrently, Coda and Zayin watched Nanaue with mounting concern. They exchanged glances occasionally, but never for long, because taking their eyes off the Shark King was a concerning endeavor. The look in his eye, the gleam, just wasn’t…good. Maybe not evil, not exactly, but in the specific circumstance it was at least bad.

Night had fallen, but sleep belonged only to Mister Satan and Kiryu. Majima stole up behind Coda and Zayin who sat in silent vigil and opted to remain standing rather than pop a squat, because of his situation. He did, however, manage an awkward forward lean that brought him within whispering distance of his companions, and cleared his throat gently. They’d heard him coming, so they did not startle, but they did lean a little further back to grant him an audience.

“So…” Majima began uneasily, searching for the words.

All three stared at Nanaue, who sat oblivious to their plight.

“Yeah,” Zayin agreed, frowning. His hands sat in his lap, fidgeting idly. “...not good.”

“Not good at all,” Coda added, visibly tense. In the darkness her bright eyes seemed luminous. ‘You don’t think he would actually…?”

A pause.

“Oh, yeah,” Majima whispered, stone-faced. “Definitely. He definitely would. He’s a shark. It’s like…in his nature to smell blood in the air and get all worked up into a frenzy. I’m surprised he hasn’t gone right over to him, pulled out a salt shaker, and gone to town. I mean, the guy’s knocking on the door, and it could even be a mercy if-”

“No,” Zayin cut him off harshly, and maybe a little too loudly. They paused, but Nanaue didn’t look over at them. “We aren’t going to talk like that. That man’s a hero, someone who has saved millions of lives and prevented the destruction of an entire planet. He’s going to pull through this. Coda’s little technique might’ve done more than we think, too. We won’t know until he wakes up.”

“Oh, please,” Majima said, making a ‘tch’ sound. “That guy? You believe that drivel? That guy couldn’t save a turtle crossing the road.”

Coda glared at him, but when she saw his expression, the contempt left her eyes. It was clear from the look on his face that Majima, too, was struggling to come to grips with their loss. Maybe belittling someone else was the only way he knew how. Her face grew speculative, while Zayin remained silent. Maybe he was thinking the same thing.

“...maybe I put that a little too harshly,” Majima admitted, sighing. “We all took our lumps out there. Well, most of us. I’m not saying the guy didn’t do his best for the group.”

Suddenly, Nanaue stood, and everybody stiffened.

Then he turned around and walked towards the treeline, where he disappeared into the darkness. They could hear the rustle of leaves as he moved further and further away, and then everything fell silent altogether.

“Where the Hell is he going?!” Majima hissed urgently. “I don’t like this. What if he’s trying to sneak around and eat Mister Satan from the treeline?”

“...I don’t think so,” Coda murmured, shaking her head. “Nanaue couldn’t sneak his way through a building full of deaf people wearing padded slippers. Something else is happening.”

They leaned forward, all three of them, listening and waiting. Then there came a sound…a gentle sort of spattering noise from several yards into the forest, like a steady trickle of…

“Oh,” said Coda, blushing. “He’s peeing.”

They looked at each other, momentarily swept up in a unified vision of Nanaue, jorts unzipped, pulling out whatever kind of shark situation he had available to him to let out an arc of urine. The thought caught them all off-guard, and then Zayin smirked. Majima barked out a full-on laugh, and Coda tucked her masked face behind her hand to snicker quietly.

“I hadn’t even thought about that,” Majima said, catching his breath, shoulders still shaking with laughter. “I wonder what that is like.”

“I hope he didn’t splatter his jorts,” added Zayin, a grin working its way carefully across his ravaged face. “The Expanse knows we won’t find another pair in his size on this island.”

“I didn’t even know they made pants that size,” stated Coda, raising her eyebrows beneath her colorful mask. “He must’ve had them like…custom tailored or something. How do you think that works? It’s not like he can walk right into a clothing shop, slap an AmEx on the counter, and ask for the biggest jorts they have. And for that matter, does he even like…shop? And where do you think he lives? Like…do you think he has an apartment somewhere, or something?”

The idea hung in the air, bizarre and difficult to process.

“He can be a little bit scary, huh? I didn’t even see him get hurt in that fight,” Coda said, eventually. “It’s easy to forget he’s a giant shark when he’s being a goofball, but when you see him watch Mister Satan…”

“You didn’t get hurt either,” Zayin stated, glancing at her.

“...yeah,” she agreed. “I guess I didn’t.”

Nanaue emerged from the woods zipping up his jean shorts, then sat back down on a distant log with his sword in his lap, watching the rise and fall of Mister Satan’s chest.

He was drooling.
 

Roy Mustang

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Armstrong was struggling. He strode behind Lauren for the moment, his bluster temporarily silenced and head bowed as he considered the situation at large. Thus far his opposition had consisted of aggressive little ones and specters of death itself. There was little honor in the defeat of a foe one quarter his size, even if they possessed the power to match him blow for blow, as the princess and penguin had. Similarly, physical power held little consequence when the foe struck back from beyond the pall of the grave.

Armstrong yearned for a true contest, fair and commendable on both fronts, without deceit or judgment. But perhaps this was a foolish distraction. An impossibility on this island. The barbarity of this bloodsport sought only to appease the masses and their desire for violence. They spared little thought to the contestants, only to the spectacle such warriors provided. How could he divert their malignance to a true contest of skill and purpose? How could he demonstrate his valor when the opposition was either unapproachable or innocuous? His considerable brow furrowed deeper in contemplation.

“So what’s the move, big guy?” Lauren glanced back over her shoulder as they walked, expression hidden in the night, “You’re not bleeding out internally back there, right?”

Armstrong twinkled reassuringly, gripping his forearm with one hand as a way to avoid the throbbing pain that radiated outwards from his broken nose.

“Not in the least! Worry not, Miss Abernathy, my focus is merely concerned with the competition we are presenting!”

“Lauren is fine.” the necromancer repeated with the resigned stubbornness of those not expecting to see a change, “Just make sure you’re not stepping into fights you can’t keep up with. This place will chew you up as happily as anyone else.”

“Of that I have little doubt.” Armstrong nodded solemnly, “However! I have yet to find an opponent that would make a fitting end to my tale, and I have no intention of perishing here without providing a sufficient performance of my elegant combat techniques!”

“Uh-huh.” Lauren frowned slightly, “well, if you don’t have any objections then I have an idea of where we should head next.”

“Then proceed, Miss Abernathy, I shall follow where you direct, as assurance against the perils of this island.”

They continued on in the watchful silence of the night. It seemed they had finally stopped running into that accursed waterfowl, and for a time the constant threats of the death game subsided into mere looming menace. As though releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, Armstrong allowed himself to acknowledge the pain he had been forcing down since the morning’s skirmish. The scarred sears across his stomach, the pounding headache, the rushing sound in his ears.

But wait, that sound wasn’t due to an injury. As Armstrong squinted in the darkness he saw they had come to the ridge of a swift-flowing forest river. Lauren was stooped on the bank, her black-coated form nearly imperceivable in the darkness.

“Looks pretty quick. There’s rocks too.” She spoke, mostly thinking out loud, “We should try to find a way around.”

“Hrmmm..”

Armstrong peered across to the far shore. Each side seemed made of sturdy rock, this stream had worn its way into this crevice in the rock with a relentless determination. For generations, likely. The rock would have made excellent material for a bridge were his alchemy not bound by the collar about his throat. His gaze turned away from the stone at his feet to one of the more sizable trees that stood nearby. Bereft of his alchemy, he would simply have to rely on his strengths. That was, to say, his strength.

“I do not believe that is entirely necessary… May I see the revolver for a moment, miss Abernathy?”

The Good Samaritan punched through one side of the tree with a frightening amount of ease, startling a nearby owl into flight. Armstrong was shirtless already as the smoke cleared, wasting no time. Punch after punch was delivered to the exposed wood of the tree as though it were a punching bag. The wood splintered and creaked, yielding to Armstrong’s relentless blows. If he could not face glorious opponents he would make the best use of his talents regardless!

With a decisive crack the tree began to topple. It was off-center, however. He hadn’t been able to direct its fall quite correctly. With a grunt of effort, Armstrong quick-stepped around to the falling side of the trunk, bracing it with his shoulder and arm. The tree was solid, a heavier weight than he had been hoping as he strained to slow its descent. His collar beeped a warning. His head was pounding now, the rushing of his own blood in his ears drowning out the stream behind him, and the pain of his injuries swelled alongside it. His feet slid gouges in the earth, but Armstrong refused to relent. With a heave he slid the tree’s fall back on-course. It spanned the river with a resounded crash, sending more wildlife to scatter as Armstrong brushed his hands in satisfaction.

“We had best be on our way swiftly. That may have drawn more attention to our location than I had intended!”

Lauren simply stood at a safe distance, her hands in her pockets and a nearly spent smoke curling a trail up into the night.

“We could have probably just found a ford or something.”

Armstrong merely laughed good-naturedly as he retrieved his discarded shirt.

“Perish the thought! Though somewhat rudimentary given the circumstances, I was not about to pass up the opportunity to demonstrate the bridge-building techniques that have been passed down the Armstrong family line for generations!”

Lauren couldn’t help but smirk. She should have expected as much by this point.
 

King Ghidorah

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The Franky Shogun Stood guard astride the mouth of the cavern, it’s mighty forearms crossed over its rice-cooker chest. Standing in the four-story robot’s shadow, Rory adjusted his shades. He craned his neck to look up at the damage to the cockpit door mounted in the machine’s torso and honked a weary sigh.

“Awwww, mang. That’s gonna take forever to buff out.”

Rory did a frustrated little kick at the rocky ground and instantly regretted it.

“Gah! Okay. Going inside now. Fuck me, d00d, this place better have some ointment.”

Swaying slightly as he waddled and making pained little exclamations with every step, the injured and denuded penguin passed beneath the defiant stance of his increasingly-beloved metal guardian and into the shadows of the mountainside cave.

He beheld a door. That was definitely the word for it: some doors you barely noticed, some doors you just nodded at, reassured of their fundamental doorness, and then there were doors that simply demanded you stand there for a moment and behold.

It was a friggin’ vault, d00d – that was the only word for it. It was a single, massive slab of steel, almost half the diameter of the Iron Pirate General’s torso, mounted on rails and sunk into the cavern wall. The thing was surrounded by gear-assemblies and hydraulic arms, crisscrossed by metal deadbolts as big around as Rory’s entire body.

In front of it, leading up to a small access-walkway, there was a short metal staircase, and at the top of that staircase, just before the door there was a console.

It took the penguin longer than he would have preferred to close the distance. The cave floor was uneven, the stairs were built for someone with much longer legs, and Rory’s battered body was not as cooperative as usual – but with a series of clangs, curses and pained wails, he eventually managed to haul himself up to the console and, with one trembling flipper, slap the largest and most obvious button available.

A screen sprang to life, displaying a cartoon version of the Man in Red. A prerecorded message began to play, something witty and vaguely threatening, but Rory wasn’t listening.

There was an industrial hiss and hum of hydraulics, a clang and whine as enormous gears engaged, the repeated crash of massive deadbolts retracting - and with a basso-profundo groan of metal under strain and a murmur of escaping air the door began to move, slowly grinding open.

Rory watched, bleary eyed beneath his chic new eyeware and breathing heavy.

A scent of sterile tile, fresh carpeting, green-apple air-freshener and abundant chromed-metal surfaces rolled out into the cavern from the semi-circle of yellow electric light now shining in the cavern wall.

Muttering about ointment and the importance of keeping an audience’s attention, the exhausted bird staggered inside.

After a moment, the massive door hissed closed, sealing itself behind him.



* * *

Two hours later, Rory was feeling much better.

The bunker had a fully-stocked kitchenette. The bunker had a bedroom. The bunker had a combination security and surveillance suite tucked away in a tiny alcove which gave the penguin nostalgic heartsick pangs for the tricked-out spy-nook/pimp-shack he’d once occupied underneath the television of a mountainside hunting lodge several lifetimes ago and several universes away.

But most importantly, the bunker had an infirmary: Rory had gleefully doused himself in half-a-can of first-aid spray, slathered himself in glorious, glorious ointment, rolled around on an exam table just for the hell of it, had a good long shower, and wrapped himself in nice, clean bandages.

Oh yeah – there was an en-suite bathroom, too.

The gash on his back still burned with arctic heat, his beak was still cracked and his eye was still swollen. His plumage was still ruined and his burns still sizzled beneath their clean linen dressings – but the bone-deep itch and ache, the shortness of breath and cloying pain that accompanied every movement, those were gone.

Comparatively, he felt like ten million credits in a leopard-skin briefcase.

With a bowl of tinned mackerel cradled in his bandaged flippers, Rory hopped into the bucket-seat which faced the slightly retro but still-expansive surveillance-and-security console. A wall of screens rose before him, showing views from outside the bunker, maps of the island, and ream after ream of what looked like geopositional tracking data. If he’d had lips, the penguin would have smiled; A shiver of glee rippled through his dark little body. He adjusted his shades, consigning the HUD feed from the Franky Shogun to one corner of his visual field.

“Alright, d00d. This can’t be that different from my old rig... maybe a little clunkier, but probably still great for finding stuff. And finding d00ds. So that I can take their stuff!"

He set down his bowl of fish, stuck his bill in it and, throwing his head back, choked one down without chewing. He burped, shook himself, and settled his flippers on the controls.

It was time to invade some privacy like an absolute boss, mang. Just like the good old days.
 

Arthur Morgan

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They broke camp at sunup. The sky gradually brightened as the sun slowly rose to its peak among the white cotton clouds, and with its appearance the rainfall began to soften— its thunderous roar giving way to a gentle pitter-patter that blanketed the forest in an ethereal sort of calm.

Hands folded neatly behind her back like a captain surveying her crew, Coda stood looking over the clearing they had made into their camp the night before. The sunshine glinted off the dark lenses of her sunglasses, rendering it impossible to know just who she was looking at or what she was thinking, but the downward slant of her mouth said enough. Despite the hustle and bustle of her allies going about their morning business, she alone remained still and silent, lost in thought.

Mister Satan, despite half his face being hideously disfigured, appeared to be in a far more cheerful state now that day had broken. He, Zayin, Kiryu and Majima were exchanging jokes while he tried to disguise his pain with a broad grin— wincing each time it tugged at the vicious cuts that scarred his face.

She'd tried to patch him up as best she could, a task complicated by a limited supply of herbs scavenged from the woodland around them. Clumps of dewy moss, wild onion and dandelion still clung to his face in a poultice of sorts, affixed with haphazard bits of shredded cloth. It wasn't every day that Coda's extensive knowledge of herbology came in clutch, but she was especially glad for it now.

Watching her companions, it abruptly occurred to Coda that she hadn't seen nor heard from Nanaue in a while. She bristled, head whipping this way and that in her search for him, nearly frantic. But there he was, just a few short meters away— utterly transfixed by the sight of a fat green caterpillar slowly inching its way up the trunk of a nearby tree.

The young woman sighed, content to just watch him for a moment. He seemed so innocent now, so very... harmless, almost naive. But she had seen a glimpse of the predator inside. It had awakened when Mister Satan was at his lowest the night before, had shown in his eyes. Lifeless eyes, black, like a doll's eyes...

Shaking her head roughly to rid herself of the thought, Coda walked over to Nanaue.

“Good morning, Nanaue!” she greeted easily, coming to a stop at his side. She craned her neck back to get a good look at the plump caterpillar making its way up the knobbly tree-trunk, evidently attempting to reach the tasty leaves in the canopy above. “What have we here, then?”

"Small friend," Nanaue rumbled, pointing with one of his big, sausage-like fingers. "Little and slow."

Eyes glimmering in amusement, Coda bobbed her head in a brief nod, also following the tiny worm's progress. "Yes. It's rather... cute, isn't it?"

“Cute,” Nanaue hummed thoughtfully— or as thoughtful as a shark could be, anyway —before suddenly reaching up and giving the caterpillar an inquisitive prod with his finger, sending half of its body wiggling out across the air. The rest of it desperately clung onto the trunk, flailing and twisting wildly in clear terror.

"Oh no!" Coda gasped in alarm, flinging out an arm to stop him. "What are you doing, Nanaue? You'll knock him off the tree if you hit him too hard!"

All at once Nanaue drooped, looking for all the world like a puppy dog who'd been told off for shredding its favorite toy.

"Wanted to play," he mumbled, great big shoulders slumping.

Sympathy tugged at Coda's heart strings, nearly splitting the organ in two. Damn it. Why on earth does a giant shark man have to be so... so goofy and lovable!

She shook her head to try and clear it, then lightly touched Nanaue's arm to gain his attention. "You know what, Nanaue... why don't we try playing with him together? We just have to be gentle. Watch, I'll show you."

Coda reached up with her other hand, placing her fingers in the caterpillar's path. Cautiously, it began to meander its way up her index finger, soft little legs tickling across her skin until it was fast climbing over her knuckles. Soon enough, the caterpillar had crawled into the warmth of her palm.

Smiling softly, the young woman lifted her hand (and the caterpillar) for Nanaue's inspection. "See? You don't have to be rough with him. You can just let him come to you. Just be gentle..."

"Gentle," echoed Nanaue in that low, rumbling voice of his. His big black eyes blinked at her, briefly rolling to white as he leaned in close to study the caterpillar. It was busy doing a quick circuit around Coda's fingers, blissfully unaware of the Shark King's hovering.

The Carnivale employee’s smile widened, braid swaying as she tilted her head to the side. "Here, hold out your hand and I'll let him crawl onto you. And remember: be gentle."

Dutifully, Nanaue held out his hand. It was at least eight times larger than Coda's own, the full span of his fingers wide enough to encompass her whole skull and undoubtedly crush it like a grape. But even so, as Coda tipped her fingers to touch his and allowed the worm to crawl onto him, the Shark King was achingly, heartrendingly gentle— scarcely daring to breathe as the little worm began to explore his hand.

Nanaue bellowed with joyous laughter, great big booming laughs, as the worm scuttled over his massive palm. "Tickles!"

Coda watched him, lighter than she'd felt in hours. Oh, but it was so good to see him like this, so delicate and kind... completely unlike the beastly figure of the night before. If only their first meeting hadn't been within the scope of this competition, why she'd—

"Oi! Rachel Carson!" Majima's voice suddenly cut in. "You and the meathead over there ready to go?"

The smile slipped from Coda's face, her head jerking up to look over. "Yeah, yeah, we're coming!"
 

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The Chorus scouted ahead of Lilith, their optics surveying the landscape before them, searching for any signs of danger. For now, there were none. Rain pelted the duo, reducing their ability to detect others at range. All they could sense was the static crackling from beneath the droid’s canary yellow carapace as the water found the damaged wires, and Lilith’s strange twitters and quiet moans of pleasure as she surveyed the wounds to her flesh.

Fuck, that got me so close,” Lilith said, purring. “I can’t believe I still have my clothes on. Must be some trick of that prude. Funny how people are fine with tearing open guts and blowing off heads but a shot of a nipple and suddenly it’s fucking obscene.

[Damage report,] the Voice of the Chorus said.

[Physical integrity is holding,] the Conductor of Progress said. [Armour plating strength at 78 percent. A number of wires beneath the plating have broken and are sparking, resulting in a small but non-negligible loss of power. The sound of the electricity discharging may make us easier to hear should we attempt stealth. All other systems operational.]

“We propose a short time waiting beneath this tree,” The Chorus said. “We fear the rain may cause irreparable damage to our exposed circuitry, given enough time.”

Lilith shrugged, seemingly more focused on her cuts and bruises. “That’s fine. The water’s washing off all the blood anyway.”

[Why is Lilith so calm and happy after receiving such wounds?] the Conductor of Archives asked.

[She presumably enjoys the sensation of pain,] the Conductor of Progress said.

[Highly illogical,] the Conductor of Conflict said. [Pain is a physiological response to damage. It is intended to be undesirable so as to deter the organic from repeating the action that resulted in the damage, and thus improving their chances for survival.]

[It is not uncommon for such survival instincts to be distorted,] Progress said. [Biological processes veer away from the median due to a number of controllable and uncontrollable factors. There could be a physiological rewiring where, instead of discomfort, she experiences joy. It may be a psychological response to a traumatic event, or series of traumatic events, in her past.]

[Does that decrease our odds for survival?] the Conductor of Diplomacy asked. [If Lilith finds pain desirable, would it not stand to reason that she would endanger herself, and by proximity us, in order to inflict it upon herself?]

[From observable data, Lilith does not seek out pain,] Progress said. [However, she will relish it should it occur to her body. In a way, it is a help to our cause – pain that would render a regular organic unable to proceed may indeed elevate Lilith’s adrenaline and excitement, engendering in her an enhanced capability for battle.]

[Continue to monitor Lilith,] the Voice of the Chorus said. [She is the first creature of this era we have studied up close. It is important to discern if her behaviour is common. Should more organics act contrary to their survival, we may find other threats easier to handle.]

[Let us ask her directly,] Diplomacy said. [Previous interactions suggest that she would not hide such information.]

The other Choirs agreed.

“Lilith,” The Chorus said as the two sat in the damp grass beneath the tree, “you appear to delight in your own pain. We find this difficult to understand. Please, enlighten us.”

“What's there to not understand? It gets me off. Makes me feel alive. Wouldn't be fun if the prey didn't struggle. And because I deserve to suffer.”

[What does the phrase ‘gets me off’ mean?] Diplomacy asked.

[From what we can infer from the Cevanti Records, Lilith finds sexual pleasure from the experience,] the Conductor of Archives said.

[Indeed. She also appears to believe she has committed a deed worthy of pain that she has not made full restitution for,] Diplomacy said. [The Choir of Progress appears correct about an emotional component to her enjoyment of pain.]

[Perhaps cataloguing the people in this era will not be as simple as you had all thought,] the Conductor of Morality said.

The Chorus observed Lilith. They were fast reaching the conclusion that she was not a good candidate to base the average organic on. Or that what the 'average organic' was would be far more difficult to categorise.
 

The Man in Red

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Aw sweet, loot!
#006 Trevor O'Skully & #010 Princess Flak​

Flak tromped her way through the muggy woodlands in the mountain pass, squinting ahead through the gloom. "This rain sucks..." she muttered. "It'd bring logistics to a crawl, if we had to try and get troops through here."

"It's doing a good job of bringing us to a crawl, too," Shinku remarked, wiping his forehead with the back of one arm. "At least it seems to be starting to let up."

"Wish it woulda let up like....ten hours ago," Flak grumbled. "This stupid dress gets real heavy when its wet."

"....." Shinku just pinched the bridge of his nose, not even bothering to respond to that.

"Hold up." The transformed general held up a hand, bringing her compatriot to a halt. "See somethin' up there..."

Shinku peered intently ahead into the gloom. "....I see it, too. Another competitor?"

"Maybe. Let's get the jump on 'em!"

Both parts of the Flavor Army nodded and split off, creeping and sneaking around in opposite directions. Within moments, Shinku crept up behind the still-kneeling form of Vitallion, and pressed the barrel of Emperor to the back of the legionnaire's head. "Don't move," he growled.

When there was no response whatsoever, the assassin of shadows looked puzzled, nudging the back of the legatus's head with his gun.

....and the deceased soldier merely slowly toppled forward, collapsing into a bloodied heap on the ground.

"Already dead...?" Shinku murmured, slowly lowering his gun.

"Whaaaat?! That's no fun!" Flak groaned, stomping back into view and angrily discharging a powered-up burst from the X-Buster into the sky. "Was lookin' forward to a fight."

"....well. At least we can take some supplies from this."

"Yeah, guess so..." Flak scratched her chin ruefully, still not looking all that pleased. "...hey, hold up. What's that?" And she pointed with a clawed finger at the piles of ash Vitallion's corpse had been atop of. "Somethin' shiny in there!"

"Hmm?" Shinku knelt down, picking through the ash and rags, and after a moment carefully picked out....a ring? holding it up to the early morning light, he turned it in his fingers, observing it curiously, as it sparkled and gleamed coldly in the light. "Strange."


The Flavor Army claims the Nazgul's Ring of Power
They also loot the Morgul Blade and Blaster Rifle
 

Anders Nazret

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“I’ve been wondering something,” Lauren said, breaking an hour-long silence, “Is the rest of your family so… bombastic?”

The question had been plaguing her ever since she had met the man. It seemed like he couldn’t go much longer than a few minutes without referencing his apparently impressive lineage. She had pegged him for a noble of some kind, but even that descriptor seemed quite lacking. She was not unfamiliar with nobility. Her profession, after all, was agnostic to one’s political or economic standing. One couldn’t exactly bribe Death to leave them alone. But, the nobles she had met were often sniveling sorts of creatures. Armstrong, however, was far from sniveling.

“Ah, yes,” He held his chin contemplatively, “The Armstrong family has a rich and proud history and it would be quite shameful of us to not espouse our virtues at every opportunity!”

An image flashed through her mind. A family full of near replicas of this guy. Buff toddlers flexing for the amusement of their peers. His mother doing squat thrusts with him as a bonding activity. Hell, his grandmother was probably absolutely shredded. She snickered uncontrollably.

“And what of you Miss Abernathy?” He asked, “I don’t believe I know anything about your family.”

“Truth be told there isn’t much to know,” She said, “My father was a necromancer, as was his father, and his father’s father, but we’re truly no one of note.”

“Preposterous!” He declared, “I’ve seen your capabilities on the battlefield, I find it difficult to believe that your lineage is as dull as you are implying.”

She smirked and shook her head, “When it comes right down to it, we’re nothing more than glorified janitors. We clean up anything that lingers after death and move on about our days.”

“I am unfamiliar with your line of work, but that seems like a noble profession Miss Abernathy. You shouldn’t view yourself in such a severe light.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” She said, “My father always said that Necromancers were the unsung champions of life and death, selflessly bridging the gap between the two.”

“How poetic,” Armstrong said, his voice growing teary, “To ease the passing of one at the end of their life, what could be more beautiful than that? Your father must have been a truly excellent man!”

“Yeah, he was something else,” Lauren answered.

She touched the bone charm around her wrist and for a moment the island seemed less dismal. Even though that damned collar kept her from communing with him she still knew he was watching her. There were few barriers that the dead could not cross and she doubted even The Man in Red could bar a truly determined spirit from observing, and her father was nothing if not stubborn. That was the kind of man he was - unflinching in his actions and beliefs.

“Should we survive this wretched ordeal I would be honored to meet him,” Armstrong said.

“Ah, that would be difficult, Big Guy.”

“Nonsense! With our winnings I could afford to travel The Crossroads from end-to-end several times over.”

“He’s uh… he’s not in The Crossroads. At least not in the way you mean.”

“What do you…” Armstrong froze mid sentence as the realization washed over him. His face soured and he bowed apologetically towards her, “Forgive my callousness Miss Abernathy, I didn't mean to reopen wounds.”

“You didn’t know,” She said, “Besides, it isn’t like I can’t talk to him.” She held up the bone charm and continued speaking, “These bones belong to my ancestors, father included. Back in the dojo I was actually communing with my dad, it’s a bit of an art, but such a technique has been passed down the Abernathy line for generations!

She did her best Armstrong impersonation, and planted her hands on her hips and puffed out her chest. The alchemist chuckled at her display and clapped his hands, “Now that would be a technique I would be interested in seeing!”

“Well, let’s get out of here and maybe I can show you a thing or two.”

“I’m looking forward to it!”

Conversation ended, Armstrong turned to continue marching, but Lauren grabbed his sleeve. He paused and glanced over his shoulder. She was holding the bone charm and her eyes were hidden behind the shades. Despite this he could nearly feel the gravity of what she was about to say.

“Can I ask you a favor Big Guy?”

“Certainly.”

“If… if I don’t make it out of here,” She said, her voice cracking for but a moment, “If I did die here and you had the opportunity, please take this bone charm to my sister. Her name is Theodora Abernathy, she runs a potion shop in Arcadia. She’ll know what to do with it.”

Armstrong nodded stoically, “Of course Lauren.”
 

The Man in Red

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#003 Alex Louis Armstrong & #012 Laurentius Abernathy VS #014 Superman​

"When we next encounter an opponent, we will need to move quickly, and press every advantage we can manage," Armstrong rumbled as they proceeded onward. "Including the element of surprise, if we must."

"Agreed," Lauren murmured quietly. Lifting her head slightly, she slowed to a stop in her tracks. "...and looks like we might have our chance real soon, big guy. Look."

Armstrong looked. Ahead, standing at the crest of a hill and staring off into the distance, was the blue and red clad form of Superman. "Ah, that one. I believe I recognize him!" the state alchemist noted, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "As mighty a hero as ever there was! He will not be an easy foe, even under these circumstances. But..." He narrowed his eyes, his expression darkening.

In the distance, Superman slowly turned his head to one side, peering over his shoulder out of the corner of one eye.

"...what? 'But' what? I don't like it when you trail off like that."

There was a soft whish, and Superman vanished from his perch on the hilltop. A blue and red blur roared across the fields toward the treeline where the duo stood, and Armstrong's eyes went wide. Wordlessly, he shoved his ally aside and stepped forward, arms crossed before his chest defensively, even as the man of steel appeared before him, delivering a punch of bone-splintering force, driving the strongarm alchemist's own guard back into his chest hard enough to knock the wind out of him and send him reeling, staggering almost drunkenly back and nearly completely falling to the ground.

"Even you...have been driven to that extent here, have you?!" Armstrong managed to wheeze as he regained his footing. Both of his arms ached, and his movements felt sluggish, but he shook it off and powered through, bringing himself to bear in the traditional Armstrong family combat stance. "I had heard you weren't the type to kill, Superman. But that...was definitely a killing blow, had I not been prepared!"

Superman stalked forward, his face twisted into a murderously cold scowl. "When I entered this competition, I was...torn," he said, his voice sounding...flat. Unnaturally cold, void of any emotion. "I knew there would be at least a few here against their will. Not the sort of violence-addicted monsters who would come here gladly and willingly. Until I knew which was which, I couldn't be sure..." He raised his right arm, the wicked sword there pulsing and writhing almost like a living thing. Fleshy veins and tendrils had already wrapped around the man of steel's arm, snaking nearly up to his elbow, and firmly locking the sword to his grip. "...who I needed to feel sorry for. Who I needed to hold back against."

And he lunged forward again, swinging out in a scything arc with the corrupt blade. Armstrong's eyes narrowed as he leaped back, feeling the tremendous force of the blow tear open a vacuum, leaving a thin trickle of blood across his chest as it sliced through his skin as cleanly as a surgical razor.

"But this morning...I realized something." Superman brought the sword about again, raising it overhead as it crackled and sputtered, electricity crackling along it as the eye in its crossguard opened, blinking wetly as its reptilian pupil focused on Armstrong. "It doesn't matter." The kryptonian's eyes took on a dull red glow, as his lips split into a silent snarl. "Everyone still here, after the first day...they chose to be here. Even if they were coerced to sign up, they chose to keep participating." His expression hardened, and he lunged forward, bringing the blade down in a massive overhand strike.

The strongarm alchemist fell back, one hand reaching into his pocket and clutching at something there. It was an emergency measure, something he had prepared just for an eventuality like this. Grimacing, he drew it out and slammed his fist into the earth. His collar beeped and flashed, the light pulsing green, as blue alchemical lightning flared around him. The ground split and surged up, earth and stone rupturing and rising up into a multitude of finely-crafted walls and barriers, taking the brunt of the sword strike.

Before the smoke had even cleared, the blue and white shape of the blitzball burst through it like a cannonball, ricocheting off the state alchemist's head and burying itself in a nearby rocky outcropping, splintering the stone and firmly embedding itself in the rock. Armstrong staggered and stumbled back, trying to ignore the stars in his vision even as the world around him spun and sounds rushed and slurred in his ears.

"I wasn't ready to go all-out against everyone. It's hard...to strike to kill, against most people." Superman came floating slowly, menacingly through the rubble and dust, his eyes blazing bright red. "But if everyone's going to act like a hungry animal, ready to fight for their lives," he spoke, his voice bearing an unsettling warped, echoing effect. "Then I'll treat them like animals."

Beams of heat lanced from his eyes, raking across the terrain. Only another hastily-constructed earthen wall spared Armstrong from being flash-fried in the conflagration that swept through the damp clearing. The moisture from the rains boiled away instantly, blanketing the area in steam and fog.

"You are a hero, sir," Armstrong bellowed. "And you should act like one, even in these deplorable circumstances!" His hulking form loomed out of the mist, poised to strike...but Superman reacted instantly, whipping about in a blur to cut him neatly in twain with the twisted, corrupted sword grafted to his arm. As the fog and steam blew away, though...it wasn't Armstrong at all. It was merely an exquisitely-crafted stone replica of the alchemist. As if to further complicate matters, several more such forms loomed and sprang up out of the fog, surrounding the fallen hero and making him whip about to and fro, shattering and slicing and obliterating one after another.

Then the genuine article appeared, hurling himself out of the fog, and seized the man of steel in a vice-tight bear hug from behind, pinning his arms to his own sides. And immediately, even his mighty muscles began visibly straining. Veins stood out on his skin, his face screwed up in concentration and rapidly growing red, as his teeth ground together. "M-Miss Abernathy...!" he ground out. "I cannot...hold him for long...!"

Superman let out a wordless snarl, his warped and echoing voice shaking the nearby trees and sending what little woodland life remained fleeing in terror.

"I know, big guy!" And Lauren came sprinting out of the fog, something held in her hands. "Just a couple seconds more...!" And she sprang forward, lifting up the object in her hands, and striking as if it were a knife.

A syringe of faintly glowing green liquid suddenly found itself embedded in the man of steel's neck. And with a desperate huff, she practically punched the plunger on it, forcing its contents to go flooding into his veins.

The effects were immediate and ugly. A spasm of mixed agony and rage shot through Superman, as his struggles intensified and he threw Armstrong off of him. Staggering away, he swung wildly at the air around him with the sparking and guttering blade of Soul Edge. The tendrils on it writhed and squirmed wetly, the lizard-like eye at its hilt spinning and rolling about as its pupil rapidly dilated and contracted.

Superman's free hand went to his head, clutching at it as he gasped and groaned, snarling and grunting like an injured beast. A faint glow of green visibly spread through his body, lighting up his veins in stark relief against his skin. "Ag...gghhh....!" And he lifted his head, glaring daggers at Lauren. "You...! I...I'll...!"

But he never got to finish his threat, as Armstrong returned to the fray. His mighty fists struck out. Once. Twice. Thrice. Again and again. Each one with a reverberating BOOM more reminiscent of cannon fire than any mortal man's punch. Each blow staggered and unbalanced the man of steel, leaving him an easy target even for Lauren as she hefted the hulky form of the Good Samaritan and added the ear-splitting roar of the monstrous handcannon to the mix.

Finally, the onslaught brought Superman to his knees, winded and bloodied, as the pulsing green in his veins seemed to tear him apart. "Ggghhh....hgch..." He coughed and spat, blood flecked with green spattering onto the ground, as he slowly lifted his head, baring his teeth. "I...will have...your...souls...!" he seethed, as a dull flickering glow of violet flame licked around him. Spreading from the foul sword, steadily igniting around the rest of his body as he forced himself to stand again.

An earth-shaking stomp from Armstrong, and the ground ruptured open, walls and columns of stone bursting forth to imprison the man of steel, if only for a moment. "You shall do no such thing," he rumbled, before quickly backing away, and beckoning for his ally to do the same.

As they retreated into the mists, Superman let out an echoing, bestial roar into the skies above.


Armstrong used 1 application of Focus
Lauren used 1 application of Focus
Lauren used the Green Stuff

Armstrong suffers severe damage to both of his forearms and chest from absorbing a Superman punch (Major Injury), and his own pummeling of the man of steel will leave his hands shaking and trembling for hours to come, as with a pulled muscle or overworked grip (Story Injury)
Superman has been severely thrashed, pummeled, and beaten on (Major Injury altogether) and suffered massive internal damage as his blood was poisoned by the nefarious Green Stuff (Insane Injury)

Superman has the Soul Edge
Soul Edge has grown in power
 
Last edited:

Ridley

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Princess Flak looked over the haul, along with the dead soldier, with some level of impression. Whatever had killed both of them, far as details went, it was a hell of a fight, and Flak wouldn’t mind re-watching on the PVR.

“I’m surprised the spirit lost to such a creature. From what I’ve heard of these… they were rather powerful.”

Flak just gave a shrug. “Man probably just took off his collar for a second and gave him one good punch. Listen, Vedallion? He literally lifted armies off his back. Probably superman. Kinda good he went out now so we didn’t fight later. Trust me.” Flak added, “...Never spotted me at the gym, though, so kinda wanted to get him back for that. Still, like…?”

Flak just kind of gave a shrug. They weren’t friends, exactly, but seeing the dead soldier didn’t exactly make her happy, either. The princess was left unsure of what to do, but decided that she’d have to do something for him. Whether they were friends, Flak wasn’t sure.

But whether Vitallion went out as a badass, with a badass end? That was clear.

Flak gave a grin. “Alright, here’s what we do…” the warrior stated after a moment, taking the belt from Vitallion’s waist and clasping it around her own - struggling a bit given the size difference. With a smirk, Princess Flak adjusted the pouch, too - useful, certainly, but it was more than that. It was a way to bring one manly warrior along for the rest of the fight. Wasn’t sure how it might make Vertalium feel, but it at least made the princess feel better.

Shinku looked up to Flak with surprise. “...Flak?” the warrior asked, as Flak looked over to the shadow assassin.

“Hey, Trev. Tell me your favorite vidja games and stuff.”

“Oh, alright… why?”

“‘Cause all I gots to say about this roman is that he went out like a man, and he could lift. S’a lame eulogy. If you go out, I gotta know stuff about you I can yell out while I beat the stuffin’ out of ‘em. Like a proper man… well, woman, I guess. Heh.” Flak added with a grin,

“But seriously, what’s your favorite Nintendo game!” Flak Exclaimed with a finely manicured finger pointed straight at Trevor's chest.

“...What’s a Nintendo?”

“....Well! now I’m sad again!”
 

Toga Voorhees

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"Well… shit," I mutter softly, face illuminated by the dim glow of the monitor. Rubbing at eyes gritty with long hours of watching a screen, I lean back and stare up at the ceiling, just for a change in pace.


"I think Mikey's about out of the running now," I muse softly. Between Big Blue and then Pengundam, even this monster was starting to slow down. I turn my attention back to the screen and, for once, the guy isn't staring back at me. Even I can tell that he's struggling to hold it together, and considering everything he's been through, it's actually kind of admirable that he can still keep marching along like that.


Sure, his gait isn't as even and steady as before, and maybe his arm is hanging a bit lower than is comfortable to look at… and yeah, he's a serial killer, so… ya know, not really a good role model… but I think any normal person would have just kicked the bucket by now. Probably well before now, if I'm being honest.


Speaking of… and it's kind of weird thinking about it, but I've gotten a little attached to the guy. Especially once things really started kicking off. Maybe it's just because I've been watching him this whole time, but I had some genuine thrills when he would pull off some of his bullshit, and I felt actual pangs of regret when he'd been beaten into the dirt.


Stifling a yawn which threatened to creak my jaws, I returned to my vigil. Most of my coworkers were already taking naps, confident that their charges would live to see the morning light. But, for me? I felt like, if I went to sleep, I'd regret it. Whatever happened, I wanted to be awake to see it. Maybe I just wanted closure… or maybe I just wanted to root for this guy that everyone hated… just wanted him to have a friend out there, even if he never knew and wouldn't appreciate it (and even if he was a heartless murderer).


"Jesus Christ, I need sleep," I groaned quietly. "I always get cringey when I'm sleepy."
 

Eddie the Head

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The vile pungence of all unuttered words rolled up in his amalgamation of un-being.

The gentle silk of evening was his bed. Whispers of night were sweet lullabies awaiting a staccato of infinite screams.

A prey, rustling, its thermal heat, emanating as it announced itself to him. One that was inevitably his. A fresh, living, warm meal. Nothing like the garbage scraps he’d been living off of. His stomach, a churning acid vat driving him into thrashing bouts of insanity.

Just this one little thing and he could eat. He could be whole again. Just one little… Bite.

Rain dribbled over the hollows of his eyes. His angled maw hinged open. Tongue scenting the dewy air. Haunches rattled his ribcage as a breath sank in. He exhaled in eager satisfaction. Mmmmmmmmiiiiiiiiiinnneeeeeeeeeeee.

A tongue slithered over the creature’s lips while his pupils rolled backwards into his skull. Unrelenting pangs of craving poured through him. Pulsing blackened ichor into his veins while his eyes painted the world in blood. Purpose succumbing to one thing: Feeding the beast within.

Skeletal hands raised toward the dripping sky clutching to catch all that the heavens poured out for him. He claimed it all, his own with unfettered exuberance.MINE! Sacred was the sacrifice of the living.

A preternatural growl pulverized his being, ripping the hunter’s rationality in two.

Soundless steps delivered him from shadow to shadow. Creeping along tree limbs as his own meatless bones took on the sharp shapes of branches. A smile loomed above his prey as the cold droplets rolled down the stalkers back. His perch, perfection. His trap, set.

His haunt would last no longer. A soundless twist and a monster delivered from above. One tasteless bite away from taking life away.
 

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Armstrong, Lauren, Superman, Peter Pellbrook​

FACE-OFF
#003 Alex Louis Armstrong & #012 Laurentius Abernathy VS #014 Superman VS #019 Peter Pellbrook​

A wordless, echoing howl rang among the hills. Fire blazed and flared in wild, chaotic arcs, as lightning flashed and thunder rumbled among the valleys between the hills. The wounded, crippled and corrupted form of Superman spasmed and roared wordlessly as he thrashed and flung himself about, crashing into trees, rocks, hills and the ground, spattering everything with blood and viscous green liquid. It was almost like some dreadful of explosive death throes.

From a safe distance, or so he thought, Peter Pellbrook observed this through a magnified scan courtesy of the power suit's helmet. "....that look normal to you?"

"Personally or professionally?"

"....both?"

"Definitely not."

"Would you...care to elaborate at all?"

"Maybe later. Duck!"

Without even asking why, the vampire nurse clone did indeed duck, just in time to avoid having a little taken off the top -- quite literally, as the blazing arc of the Soul Edge tore through the spade his eyes had just been occupying. The shockwave of the blow blew away everything for at least a dozen yards behind him, leaving only scorched earth and dancing sparks.

".....call you back, Doc."

"Kick his ass!"

Superman, his voice so mangled now from exhaustion, injury and corruption, roared out a single word. "DIE!" As he dealt out a savage backhand with his non-sword arm.

Blue light flared across Peter's armored face, as the blow caught him in the chin, sending him sailing through the air and curling awkwardly into a flip to tumble back to a landing on his feet as the man of steel lumbered after him. "Already dead, thanks. You're a little late to the..." His quip died in his throat as he watched the fallen hero just straight-up vanish, only a soft 'whoosh' to signal he had moved at all. Then he felt something akin to a branding iron shot out of a cannon strike him in the gut, and all manner of warnings flashed across the internal HUD of the power suit.

Soul Edge tore through the protective energy layer of the suit, and punched right through the metallic shell as well, goring its way into the vampire's innards and skewering him clean through, as the man of steel's eyes, visibly bloodshot and the whites tinging and ugly green, not to mention already glazing over in a slow, agonizing death, bored into his through the visor.

Peter let out a muted noise of mingled pain and surprise, slowly tilting his head down, and lifting a shaking hand toward the grisly wound. "....wow. Look at that...guess I've been impaled..." he murmured. "....well that sucks. Really gonna need to see a doctor about that when I'm done here."

And he lifted his head up to meet Superman's gaze again, as a dim red glow lit up his own eyes. "Luckily I work in a doctor's office, huh?" And with a deep breath, Peter reached deep down for that little bit of awful monster all vampires had hanging around somewhere. And he did what was generally considered to be a Very Bad Idea: he let it out of its cage.

Instantly, a sharp, almost reptilian hissing sound emerged from between his clenched teeth as he grabbed the blade of Soul Edge skewering him and slowly, struggling against his foe's own titanic strength, force it free of his body. Holding fast to keep Superman right where he wanted him, the vampire nurse lifted his other arm, the barrel of the arm cannon pulsing with light. "Bam." And a burst of energy belched forth, engulfing the kryptonian's head in a plume of fire and smok, and launching him clear over a nearby hill.

With only a moment to look down at the damage to his suit -- and his innards, he guessed -- Peter grimaced and shook his head. "I can patch that up later....probably..." And he bolted forward, taking huge leaping strides and bounds to pursue the crazy man in red and blue.

As Superman came crashing down in a smoking, burning heap, a certain state alchemist was ready for him. And already swinging the mightiest, body-pivoting hook he could bring to bear, his fist connecting squarely with the side of Superman's head. For a single, physics-defying moment, the kryptonian's momentum was halted entirely as the force of Armstrong's blow fought to redirect it it. Then, with a grunting roar of exertion, steam billowing from his nose, the stromgarm alchemist proved his title apt and took a step forward, following through with tis punch and producing a reverberating KA-THWOOM like a clap of thunder, as Superman was violently launched aside, his body spinning wildly and crashing through a nearby tree to embed himself in the muddy slope of a nearby hill.

Heaving violent, deep breaths, sweat pouring down his face, Armstrong nonetheless stood proud, twinkling and sparkling positively majestically.

"That, uh...that kind of punching also been passed down your family for generations, big guy?" Lauren murmured, warily observing the momentarily downed man of steel from a (hopefully) safe distance, the Good Samaritan already in her hands.

"But of course!" And Armstrong flashed her a thumbs-up, with a weary grin. "Using every ounce of the body's strength, working every muscle to maximize the explosive power of each blow; that is an Armstrong family tradition!"

"Y'know, I'm not entirely sure that's how that kind of thing works, really." Peter Pellbrook arrived on the scene in a blur, the barrel of the power suit's arm cannon leveled neatly at the side of Armstrong's head. "Then again, what do I know about martial arts? I'm just a nurse." He winced visibly, his head jerking to one side as a monster of a bullet caromed off of his head, leaving his ears ringing as the patron saint of Tinnitus screamed directly into his brain.

Armstrong seized the chance and whirled about, swinging with all he could muster at their new opponent, but his mighty fists met only air. Instead, it was he who suffered a heavy blow, as an armored fist planted itself in his sternum. Gasping and retching, as one hand reflexively clutched at his freshly bruised chest and splintered ribs, Armstrong staggered back, fighting just to keep his feet as Peter walked right past him toward Laura.

Bullet after bullet from the Good Samaritan hit the advancing armored vampire, sparks flying as they alternately ricocheted off or halfway-pierced the power suit. It was all good, though; he could patch that up later. Probably. He waited until he heard the telltale click of a revolver out of ammo before he lunged forward, his empty hand out before him and grasping Laura by the throat and lifting her off her feet.

The helmet of the power suit flickered and tessellated away, baring his face to the world. "Hello, ma'am. I'm gonna drink you now."

Laura, her shades slipping slightly down her face, stared with wide eyes as the armored nurse slowly bared his fangs with a long, low hissing sound. She muttered something under her breath, screwing her eyes shut and nearly dropping the oversized handgun she held as she desperately clutched at the bone charm around her wrist.

....it wasn't the answer she wanted, but something did answer. Shimmering, translucent and burning with the green of spirits departed from the physical world, a clawed hand suddenly grabbed Peter by the back of his head. "How very rude of you, sir," a voice spoke up, with just the slightest echo of otherworldliness. "To so openly and forwardly accost a lady." And with surprising strength, Peter's head was yanked back, bending his back at an unnatural angle, forcing him to stare, upside down, face-to-face with the ghostly, departed form of...Mid-Boss. "As a gentleman, I simply cannot abide such a deplorable act!" And the spiritual noble yanked further back, as he whirled around and brought one elbow down into the vampire's armored limb with a decisive snapping sound, forcing him to release Laura with a pained yelping noise.

Laura, staggering back, rubbed at her sore and bruised throat, as she coughed and sputtered, trying to catch her breath.

"Oh, come on...ghosts, now?" Peter groaned, as the power suit's helmet digitized back around his head. "Seriously?" He flexed his struck arm, testing its functionality. A little numb, sore...but that crack had mostly been the armor. Good. "You're gonna need to do more than some uppity ghost to come out of this on top, though."

"Au contraire, mon ami," the spectral Mid-Boss said simply, shifting to place himself directly between Laura and Peter. "She has done more than enough, as you will soon discover. As much as it pains to admit it...you should not be concerning yourself with moi." And he lifted a hand, brushing his normally vibrant violet locks back from his forehead. "I am simply the most glorious and capable of distractions."

"Distractions?" The question came from Laura, Peter, and even Armstrong all at once.

"Distraction from what?"

In answer, Mid-Boss merely smirked as he pointed past Peter, and his spectral form began to waver and grow even more translucent.

A deep, guttural growling suddenly sounded, and the ground shook. Something...unearthly hove up behind Peter, and he was lifted off his feet bodily, before being promptly slammed into the earth with devastating force by the returned Superman. His body was visibly broken and battered, his once noble costume ripped and smeared with blood and mud. His face was twisted into a snarling scowl, teeth bared. And his eyes...had completely glazed over with a film of death, only a dull glimmer of green sparkling somewhere within.

He kicked savagely at Peter, stalking after him as he rolled and flopped along the ground, swinging drunkenly with the corrupt sword still grated to his arm.

"Aw, hello no, I am not dealing with ghosts and zombies in a single day!" Peter groaned, quickly backstepping and doing his damnedest to dip, duck, dodge and dive around another skewering. "To hell with this; I'm out!" And he made an unnecessarily acrobatic flip further back, landing in a crouch with the arm cannon held outward. "Fuck off!" And the cannon let loose a withering stream of energy, blanketing the entire valley between the hills with white and blue plasma, before turning to high-tail it from the scene without even bothering to observe the results.


Peter Pellbrook used 2 applications of Focus to go full vampire (you never go full vampire, dude) + one from Cornered Tiger
Superman used one application of Focus from Cornered Tiger
Laura was pressured into using one application of Focus

Armstrong has had his sternum cracked (Minor Injury) and his punching arm will be mostly useless for the next several hours as the nerves refuse to cooperate (Story Injury)
Peter suffers some...gnarly internal injuries in the form of being shishkebab'd by a horrible nightmare sword (Major Injury), and getting variously pummeled, smacked around, and brutalized by undead monster tropes (Major Injury)

#014 Superman -- ELIMINATED
Laura has acquired new 'weapon' -- Corrupt Superzombie
 
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Zayin

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“You ever been to one of those pawn shops? I love ‘em.” Majima said casually as he set up his next joke to the three other guys at the head of the group, with Coda and Nanaue still trailing slightly behind.

“That’s a little crude, don’t you think?” Zayin winced, drawing a cackle from the eyepatch-wearing yakuza.

“No, pawn shops.” He reiterated. “Where you go and buy or sell old stuff.”

“The pawn shops in Kamurocho never give you a good deal.” Kiryu said solemnly, shaking his head.

“No no, they’re great.” Majima said jovially. “I went down to one the other day, brought an old family antique with me.”

“What?” Mr Satan scoffed before wincing, even the act of raising his voice seeming tough. “You’d pawn off an heirloom for a quick buck?”

“I was strapped for cash!” The yakuza said, raising his hands defensively. “So anyway, I show the clerk this antique right, and I say to him ‘Gimme as much as I can get with this.’”

The group listened intently to the story, wondering if selling an old family heirloom was worth the payout.

“It was amazing, the guy took one look at it and gave me all the money in the register.” Majima cackled to the surprised murmurs of his party. “And the best part is, he didn’t even take the sword off me!”

The contestants broke into gentle, amused laughter at their ally’s joke. Moments later, Mr Satan’s hearty chuckles broke down into wheezing coughs as he doubled over, stopping his pace for a moment to catch his breath. The two yakuza and the angel exchanged worried looks as the champ caught himself, inhaling deep before recovering his posture.

“You don’t need to push yourself.” Zayin said calmly, trying his best not to patronise the defender of earth. “If you need, we can take a short break and…”

“No… no, it’s fine.” Mr Satan insisted, waving him off as the remaining pair of their group caught up. Coda wore a worried expression as she glanced at their wounded companion before looking back at Nanaue and suddenly assuming an even more worried expression. Subtly placing herself between King Shark and the rest of the group, trying not to make it obvious that she was trying to repress some predator instincts, the Carnivale Employee spoke up.

“You are doing a lot better now, Mr Satan, but you’re still not fully recovered.” She said, pursing her lips with a slightly disapproving look on her face. “I don’t doubt your abilities, but if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to tell us.”

An odd expression briefly flashed over the champion’s face, somewhere between pain and worry, but it was quickly replaced by his signature smile as he flashed a peace sign to the group.

“Guys, I appreciate the concern, but really, I’m all good.” He said confidently, grinning at the rest of the team, though they could all see the cracks forming in his facade. “Don’t worry, I’m the champ, you can rely on me! I… I won't let you down…”
 
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Number Five

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The dark embrace of night holds many secrets. In this particular instance, it holds a zombie with mental health issues and an insatiable hunger for living flesh. And it was Five’s sheer luck this undead was on his tail. Apparently he was the schizophrenic proclaimed prize–the hitman was rejoiced with maximum sarcasm.

The continuous running was taking its toll on this young body. He had to rest before they ran into another enemy with their tank running on fumes. The area appeared clear of flesh-eating allies. “Good. Time for a breather.” Five said underneath his unregulated breath. He sat down in the cold and wet ground and started taking slow, deep breaths.

“You -really think this is sssssafe?” Eddie hissed down Five’s neck with pure terror.

‘Shit!’ the thought shot through his mind as every fiber of his being had goosebumps. Adrenaline dictated his actions–the hitman instinctively ducked away. Yet this time, his reflexes came up short as he felt the boney fingers clasp around his ankle. “You’re not going anywhere!” Like a ragdol, Five got dragged back through the mud and flipped on his back.

"Shit."

The corpse himself climbed on top and held five pinned to the ground. “You’re mine, boy…” Eddie uttered with a satisfied grin stretched across his face. The stench of degenerated corpse that was paired with the breath carrying the words invaded the hitman’s nose and violently attacked his stomach. It took Five every bit of restraint to keep his meagerly provided rations down.

“So long… number boy.” With these final words, Eddie was done playing with his food and sank his teeth into the student’s shoulder.

“AAAH, get off you discussing second hand cadaver.” With all of his strength, Five is trying to push off his attacker, both feet pushing where a normal human’s gut is supposed to be, only to get his food stuck in between the rags. Is this how he is going out, being eaten by his own ally?

Rotten teeth are sinking in his flesh–time was running out. It was at that moment the undead's eyes shot open wide and released Five from his hold as he let out a blood curling shriek. A maniacal cry, cold enough to raddle even the bravest on the island. The student crawled backwards, away from his psychotic assailant, but never taking his eyes from him.

With rotten hands holding his shaking head, Eddie ducked behind a nearby, rather large tree stump, where he became silent once more. Five was not taking any more chances with the unpredictable variable. Without a second thought, he channels his inner survivalist. You don't survive an apocalypse without becoming resourceful. With a sturdy, long branch and some nearby vines, the innovative hitman created a home made Ketch-all catch pole.

Yet… not a zombie in sight.

With great care, Five approaches nature's stump–ensuring he wouldn't cliché-snap a twig or something. He knows that's where Eddie ducked for cover after his little breakdown.

Peeking behind the broken tree, he saw it… The Undead's next phase (as he puts it). It was actually an improvement. There he was… chains, a white restraining order and a gaze as clueless as a shark on dry land. But he seemed… calm, distracted.

There was no way Five was risking it. Without warning, he snapped the vine around Eddie's neck, tightened it, and with the branch, he kept his new guard dog at bay. "There we go, not sure what's gotten into you, but we're going for a stroll to find you some food, you sick bastard. You tried to eat me!" He said with a tone of disbelief before guiding him forward.

"Wait… you bit me. Does that mean… I'm... infected with whatever you got?"



"Eddie?!"

"Use your words Eddie."

There was no answer but a mindless gaze. It seemed no one was home... for now.
 

Sandor Clegane

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The mountains, this time.

And they’d been there before - in fact, they’d been to this exact spot before, and that’s how they’d known where to find it. They’d hauled themselves over the same mountain trails, forged their way through the same outcropping of trees, slid down the exact same embankment, and picked their way across the exact same jagged-tooth pop-up rocks - in fact, while back tracking, they’d actually discovered the scrimshaw design Nanaue had etched idly in the broadside of a boulder while they’d paused for a break on their first pass through.

In some ways it felt aimless, it was easy for it to feel that way, because doesn’t forward feel like progress and backwards feels like a rewind? But it was not aimless, because their aim was a moving target.

They’d come to rest in light of the day, a homogenous unit of wildly differing individuals blended into one single machine with separate cogs turning in their own directions that served to create one cohesive function: the function of survival. They sat upon rocks or the ground, clothed blemishes in an otherwise natural landscape, and each took their rest in their own way.

Kiryu and Majima engaged in a game of Paper-Rock-Scissors, which, against all odds looked rather spirited despite the gasps and winces Kiryu used to punctuate the matches. Not the easiest activity with a few of his ribs spatchcocked. That he could play it all was a testament to his tenacity.

“Kiryu-chaaan!” yowled Majima, every once in a while.

He did not appear to be winning.

Nearby, Mister Satan and Zayin sat upon adjacent rocks, leaned forward and engaged in hushed conversation. They were, of course, still audible - the dip of a mountain has a way of magnifying sound - but then, they weren’t trying to conceal their words from their allies. It was just the way the island made you feel that demanded some level of secrecy in almost every action.

Then there was Nanaue and Coda. Out in the middle, cutting the difference between the other two pairs, they huddled over the Sword of Omens. This was something they did, usually as a pair, sometimes with a few more of the group involved, but always at least the two of them. Every few hours they’d stop, hold the thing aloft, and speak to it.

At first they hadn’t realized they could, but the thing seemed to have a mind of its own, and something in the gleam of the gem…it had given them instruction, or at least it had felt like it. What other explanation could there be?

“Sword of Omens…” Coda glanced at Nanaue, and smiled reassuringly. “Go on, big guy. Say it.”

“Give me…” he spoke slowly, his face a mask of concentration. Putting together one entire sentence without omitting a word seemed to take up the bulk of his RAM. “Sight…beyond…”

He looked at Coda.

“Sight,” she finished for him, and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

The red gem on the blade’s cross guard flashed, grew bright, and seemed to hum with a crackling energy.

“Show me…”

Coda leaned in and whispered something to the sword, which responded in turn with a flash of imagery. A scene: a single man, it showed, but a formidable one. They watched him for a little while, quiet, and then the sword reverted and took back its image, replacing it with symbology: a black shark’s head rampant across a field of crimson. Coda looked at Nanaue, whose eyes filmed with membrane once, blinking, then went back to their blank and glittering black.

“...what do you think, Nanaue?” she asked, scrutinizing the shark’s face closely. She wanted to see how much he understood.

“...hungry!” Nanaue boomed, letting his sword-hand drop. His other hand went to his belly and rubbed it.

Coda smiled.

“That’s right, buddy. Hungry.”

She looked around cautiously, but the rest of the group remained engaged in their frivolities. That was good. Her gaze returned to Nanaue, and she felt a pang of remorse for what she had planned, but…it was better this way.

They idled away the time in their own ways, then Coda stood up suddenly.

“Hey!”

Everyone turned towards her.

“I’ve, uh…I’ve got to…”

“Have a shit?” answered Majima-san, smirking.

Coda frowned.

“Well, I wasn’t going to put it like that, but uh…”

“Go ahead,” Zayin said, his face impassive. “...and you probably don’t need to announce it in the future.”

Coda chuckled nervously, and then skirted around a big rock that led to one of the many ant-farm style paths that wound its way from the nexus they’d installed themselves in. She followed the path, but she didn’t stop to attend a call of nature. Instead, she pulled her mask down more tightly to smooth out any of its wrinkles, and heard the faint ‘chk-chk-chkaaaa’ of a set of maracas.

“Sorry, but…I’ve got to do this one alone,” she whispered to no one in particular.
 

King Ghidorah

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Washed, rested, bandaged and fed, Rory waddled out of the cave which concealed his newfound base of operations. It was still raining, though not nearly as hard: the sky had begun to brighten from its roiling black to a mere iron gray, and here and there faint patches of light threatened to poke through the gloom. Looking south, the landscape rolled away to low grassy hills and forested wetlands – deciduous trees concealing ponds, streams and swampland from which a threatening black-and-purple mist was beginning to rise. The penguin could see the trail his sweet new ride had left as he came to this place – great muddy footprints tracing a path across the landscape, and closer to hand the impression its body had made when it crushed that creepy d00d with the awesome shield, now a small but respectable water-feature, filled nearly to overflowing by the rain.

He stood in the lee of the Franky Shogun, a dry patch of mountain bedrock sheltered by the robot’s bulk, smelling the scents of damp stone and listening to the rain clattering softly against the mighty machine’s hull.

Rory was in a strangely introspective mood: he wasn’t accustomed to examining his past with any degree of thoroughness – as much as he loved to tell stories and draw comparisons, he was more of a look-to-the-future kind of d00d. Sitting at that console though, setting the equipment to scan the island, pinging the local surveillance net, the tension of the Death Game and the persistent icy fire of the wound in his back – it all harkened so clearly to a much earlier time in his life. It had unlocked a deep well of nostalgia that he was honestly a little bit annoyed to discover he possessed. The battered bird found himself desperately needing to talk to someone – but excepting the robot, there was nobody around.

“Mang,” he said, sitting directly between the enormous feet of the Iron Pirate General and pecking at an itch beneath his right flipper. He was quiet for a little while, collecting his thoughts before once again addressing the machine he had, through stress and irrational need, latched onto as quite possibly his only friend.

“… y’know, I used to have some pretty wild times. Before I got into being a businesspenguin full-time, I mean. Used to hang out with some pretty good d00ds. I mean, I say hang out – I lived in a secret room under their TV, mostly, and spied on ‘em for my boss. And actually, some of ‘em sucked – like, a lot. Like, imagine a d00d with all the power in the universe and the only thing they can think to do with it is hang around in the woods, start fights with evil clowns and fuck with geopolitics. Stupid, right? Like, your aesthetic doesn’t have to be your whole personality, mang, stop throwing energy blasts at broody teenagers and get a hobby. Maybe go touch a boob, if you’re a mammal.”

Rory’s wiped his eyes with a bandaged flipper. He was not going to get teary-eyed over this – after all, there was a better-than-even chance he was on TV right now.

The Franky Shogun was silent, maintaining its colorful, unmoving vigil over the mountainside.

“But they were my d00ds,” Rory continued. “Even the stupid ones. Maybe especially the stupid ones – they were fun at parties and, like, basically never realized they were my secret minions.”

The penguin brooded silently for a couple of minutes before speaking again.

“Eventually they all kinda left. My boss had a whole endgame, and there was a bunch of other stuff happening, and things got a little nuts. A couple d00ds went crazy; Some of them frickin’ died! And mang, everyone was really surprised when that stuck. And then the place was empty, and with no d00ds around for me to watch my boss stopped pretending he didn’t know about all the sicknasty raves and alien arms deals. So I lost my job.”

A last, faint peal of thunder echoed in the distance. The wind kicked up, carrying the scent of grass after rain. Rory honked a sigh.

“I wonder what those d00ds are doing now?”
 
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Ridley

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Princess Flak had a chuckle as she and Trevor broke camp for a bit. Earlier there’d been a pang of sadness as Trevor’d needed a Nintendo explained to him - and worse, only seemed passingly interested in the concept of a game boy advance, the best handheld console of all time!

Yet, there was a certain familiarity in all of this. It brought her back to a simpler time raiding the orange star nation, where she’d taken a small army and fought, burned and pillaged her way to a big one! Sure, it had taken Sturm’s power and Lash’s tech to finance her, but she blitzed the little country and left it burning.

Of course, that didn’t last. A beautiful CO had taken charge of the remainder of the orange star forces, one with a similar kind of luck to Flak but a lot more experience, and a hell of a lot of moxie! But, even if it ended with a tag-team swap, and a close loss for Flak… it was one heckuva battle, and one he found himself constantly remembering from time to time.

Hopefully this deathgame thing had a similar kind of battle, except the part about the loss bit. This time, Princess Flak was going to claim her crown! The first victory of many she planned to accomplish for Lord Ridley!

At the thought, Flak looked down to look at her pouch, opening it up as Shinku came up next to him, hauling a sling filled with weaponry.

Picking up the ring they’d caught before, Flak thought back. “Hey, Shinku, you said this smelled like bad juju?”

“Yeah. Don’t exactly trust it. At least with the blade, it seems contained,but this…

Flak looked at the silver ring. ‘Said it was a Nazdil or something. The death announcement, I mean. But like, I think I remember watching something about rings… Ah, right! It’s that one movie I watched with Adder. Supposed to help me ‘broaden my horizons’.

Flak took in a breath, thinking on the words, as they cam out too gentle for his normal tones.

“Three were given to the Elves, immortal, wisest and fairest of all beings. Seven to the Dwarf-Lords, great miners and craftsmen of the mountain halls.”

Flak tapped against her crown for a moment, like trying to pick a memory out, as she continued to speak with an unusual poise. “And nine, nine rings were gifted to the race of Men, who above all else desire power. For within these rings was bound the strength and the will to govern each race. Or… that’s what the lady said.”

Shinku looked surprised. “Do you think the movie’s real? What happens next in it?”

Princess Flak shrugged. “No idea. I just quoted the part before I fell asleep.”

“You… fell asleep?”

“Three times. Then Adder gave up. Then Adder tried again. Then gave up again. Then tried one more time.”

“And you fell asleep…?”

“Same time, everytime. Adder said it was the spookiest thing he’d ever seen. Er… think it was ‘spookiest’.”

Might have been something else. But probably not. She’d have to thump Adder later just in case.

Princess Flak looked down at the ring though. It was pretty, and kinda looked like it’d fit on her finger. So was there a problem? With putting it on, was there really a problem?

Flak just shrugged, as Shinku stared warily.

“...Know what! I ain’t about to be scared of a little jewelery!”

Flak placed the ring on her finger with a final glare, the ring slipping on like it was made just for her finger!

“Flak?!”

A hand went to the princess’s chest, as her eyes bulged. “G-guh…”

Trevor was quick to come to his companion’s side, the assassin offering support, as Flak put a hand to her mouth, her shoulders quivering.

“Flak? Say something? Are you alright? Speak to me!” Trevor added, as Flak turned her eyes to him.

Turning away, a violent tremble went through the princess, her body trembling where she stood, before…


Brrrruuup!




Trevor’s face fell stony, as he regarded the princess. “...Really?”

The extremely uncouth princess Flak groaned, placing a hand at the top of her chest in the first thing the WYVERN general had shown this whole event.. “Sorry. Couldn’t answer with a mouth full of burp. Really came out of nowhere.”

“Never thought I’d see you apologize for-”

“Worrying my friend?”

“Ah. Thought it was… well, the whole burp…”

“Oh, yeah. That was pretty pitiful, wasn’t it? Not my best one.”

“I give up.” Shinku finally added after that with a sigh, a smirk still crossing his face despite himself. “...It’s been a long walk. Permission to take a nap, Army leader?”

Flak gave a smile. “Granted! Let’s get some sleep.” The princess added, cheerful as ever.

Though…

As the princess sat her unfamiliar, dainty bottom on a log nearby to take first watch…

Felt like that was the last burp she’d ever make.
 

Arthur Morgan

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Ordinarily, Coda Nitai was not one to take unnecessary risks. But this... this was far too tempting of an opportunity to ignore. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and all that.

She could feel it in the air. It was a power, a surging energy that emanated from a burning scarlet mark carved into the mountainside. Super-heated gusts of wind danced in rippling, mirage-like waves over the craggy earth, almost like the epicenter of a vast, invisible tornado of raw strength— and Coda was headed straight for it.

Storm clouds shifted and lightning spiraled and crackled, tongues of white heat streaking across the skies and sending sparks raining down from the heavens. To the east, the corruption of the Unmaking pulsed and throbbed across the far flung horizon, its noxious power rising like a giant wave over the rolling seas, flagellating darkness threatening to consume all in its path.

It remained off-shore, for now. Seemingly biding its time, though Coda knew well that the calm would not last forever.

The young woman squared her shoulders, bristling at the intense sensation of sheer wrongness simmering in the air. The wispy morning mist clung fast to her clothes and hair, tousling them as she stalked stubbornly onward, an icy sprinkling of rain falling all around. Despite the relentless onslaught of the elements, however, her every step was light as a feather, almost panther-like; scarcely disturbing the blades of grass that passed beneath her feet.

Though she had initially felt a distinct twinge of remorse at leaving her comrades behind, that feeling was now but a tiny mote of dust fighting against a tidal wave, overshadowed by a grim kind of certainty that steeled her resolve and bolstered her forward. She was marching right into the eye of the storm, yes— and doing so quite gladly. Sheer determination kept her steady, undeterred even as thunder roared and lances of lightning scorched the very earth around her, hot electricity broiling in the air.

Glittering orange-gold eyes remained fixed unwaveringly upon Coda’s goal, twin points of fiery focus that burned away all doubt and hesitation— unblinking, feverish, and glimmering with deep ambition.

And for the first time since this paltry contest began, a genuine snarl of rage curled upon her lips.
 
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