DGS3 -- Spectator Central

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The Man in Red

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This is the thread for all your shenanigans and antics involving the following:

1 - Anyone within the preshow and staging facilities who are watching or otherwise observing the game
2- Anyone on other worlds throughout the Crossroads who are watching, wherever services are available to do so

If you have any questions about anything, as always, feel free to just ask away.
 

King Ghidorah

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It was quite possibly the loneliest tavern on Mesa Roja. There had been a town around it once, but due to fast-talk and unwise financial maneuvering even the foundations had had to be sold off.

The walls were bare, save for a single shelf containing three bottles of unlabeled whisky. There were no chairs, and the tables were all piled upon one corner. The shriveled bartender, formerly the mayor, stood in a threadbare suit, moving dirt around the surface of a glass with an even dirtier rag, in companionable silence with the broken drunkard who had once been the sheriff of their thriving community. That sturdy giant, whose body possessed the creeping slackness of a once-powerful man who no longer cares about his health, sat in the one remaining stool with his face turned sideways upon the countertop , staring vacantly at a grainy television which perched on the end of the bar.

The sheriff squinted, flaking skin off his sun-bleached brow. Then he frowned.

"Holy shit," he croaked, his voice brittle from bad whiskey and disuse.

The bartender froze. This was the most the other man had said in months.

The sherrif levered himself upright, his cheek coming free of the lacquered wood with a sound like velcro. He pointed a shaky finger at the television.

"It's him, Daryl. It's that weird fuckin' bird who sold our town."

The bartender put down his glass and rag and fiddled with the tv, bringing up the volume and sharpening the picture.

"------Oooooo," intoned the color commentary, "You know that has to hurt!" Invulnerable or not, his pride is going to feel that in the morning!"

The sheriff swallowed. "He just bitch-slapped Superman, Darryl. I didn't even know Superman was real, and the fast-talkin' little fucker just slapped him down like he was one of our loan applications. "

Darryl spit. It took some effort - he was dehydrated as hell.

"I told you that bird was the devil."
 
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Maximus

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By the time daylight came Marius and Maximus were busy bending beside an old rundown building and discussing what the small little device shedding unnatural light on the two was doing and showing.

“And so, let us check in with the local uh- what was the guy’s rank called Comman/Legetus something as a news broadcaster looked boredly at his paper while looking up.

Maximus raised an eyebrow at his two allies now, the godlike figure, and the wayward Roman General.

Marius looked up at the television screen and was about to squish the box that he was talking about when it suddenly made him freeze in his tracks.

“Wait, Legatus? Who came here with that.-rank. “”

His mouth fell agape, and he blinked “How in the god’s name did Vatallion come alive from Elysium?”

Maximus blinked “Wha, how do you come back alive from Elysium?”

Marius looked back “Not sure how he got in that box thing and how he survived, must have been the Gods and Goddesses doing.


Maximus was confused as well, nobody’s ever lived to tell the tale becoming alive again. Was this the little fluffball’s doing, Atticus?
 

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The television changed from the news to the death game feed again.
"During the last few hours, we've gotten word from- Oh wait, Oh!"

There's the Roman Legatus fighting a... wolf... with a gun?
Titus eyed the screen intensely, waiting and pacing for results

Maximus questioned the man puzzled "This father figure of yours, he's fought a wolf with "this gun", right?"

Marius didn't respond as the television set showed both warriors semi-blooded from a fight, who won? He couldn't exactly tell to be honest.
 

John Connor

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Uruk Bar

Jak was wearing a bluish coat with Daxter on his shoulders.

“Look who showed up, finally.”

Daxter muttered “HEY, Me and Jak are tryin’ to enjoy retirement here!”

Jak eyed the ottsel “It’s the discount death games, glad it isn’t us this time going there.”

He had something on his back besides just his Morph gun this time and he had a little sigh on his face.

Victor looked up and pointed “Looks like some guy in armor took your place this time.”

Daxter bliinked “What guy in armor? He can’t take our place, Jak!”

Jak stared at a page “Something about a solider guy named Vatallion or something.”

Daxter raised an eyebrow “Hm? Sounds like Torn from home, like that John Connor guy before..
 

Victor Wolfe

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"It's not like it was your lowest moment, I mean getting zapped by the ninja kiddo surely felt worse than getting zapped by another you?" The earth goddess taunted as she and a rather red-faced Victor stormed into the same sports bar that had been the source of all his problems. The pair were followed by the blue cultist robes of Sigmund, who rubbed at his arm awkwardly not really used to this type of setting.

"You know..." Victor readied his retort.

"If it wasn't more effort than it's worth to try, you would kill me for that comment?" Suwako gave a taunting wink as she found the trio some seats, Victor walking up to the bar and sliding forward a bag of coins. "Sake for my lovely short companion, wine for the tentacle pope and for me? Absinthe! All of this by the bottle and keep it coming, if I remember where this bar is I might just have it shut down!" Victor chortled to himself.

"Ok Victor, I thought you said that this was serious business and a matter of grave urgency, why are we at a bar?" Sigmund spoke up slightly irked at being dragged away from his sermons and the quest for forbidden knowledge.

"Oh but this is urgent business! These death games are a prime display of the crossroads available talent and as the two lords currently in Uruk I feel it's our job to scout out that talent!” Victor argued his eyes glimmering with their usual ambitious shine.

“ Well, that seems reasonable…” The priest of Galskap nodded in agreement.

“Also I had a very stressful day and it's watching murder or commit it!” Sigmund's eyes rolled at that statement, there it was, there never was just one motivator for the former emperor. Still, he couldn’t deny that it was somewhat of an almost pleasant surprise that the big emergency was something so, mundane. No flaming demons, xenomorphs or elven cities to conquer, things had seemed to have settled down a little for the pair in the past years.


The trio made small talk catching up on the day-to-day business of well, business, cult life and general roguery. Their attention was caught by the first fight of the evening as a man in a blue body suit with a red man thong squared off with, an avian of some kind? “So my memories from the fusion are telling me that's a penguin, and the other thing is a Superman? Well, rest in peace little bird looks like we have an early… huh” As Victor was doing his usual know it all speech the penguin blasted the big blue boy scout with some kind of energy sending him running with his tail between his legs.

The bar went eerily quiet as everyone processed what they had just seen, after what felt like a minute the tavern erupted into cheers so loud it felt like the room was shaking, Sigmund and Victor both announcing.

“I want it!” Sigmund clearly wanting to research and run some experiments on this strange creature turned to Victor.

“Penguin xenomorphs?” He questioned.

“No I just want a super powerful tuxedo bird to serve me drinks and then when people think they have caught me with my pants down my new wine-serving butler bird blasts them!” Victor exclaimed with child-like glee.

Suwako chimed in “Well if they have them in the crossroads that shouldn’t be too hard, they usually live in massive colonies.”

“But that would mean training them, I just want that specific one, put it on the Goldie day present list!”

The trio continued to drink, Sigmund sipping at his wine, Suwako her Sake and Victor finishing his first bottle of Absinthe, a lull in the action allowing for the conversation to take a turn.

“So, Darkseid, The Man in Red, Karl Jak, fuck, marry, kill.” Suwako hit out causing Sigmund to spit and cough up wine everywhere, much like the aforementioned Karl. Victor gave the question a moment of thought.

“Well kill Darkseid obviously, hmm, I think we sleep with Karl given it would be one hell of a story to tell on a talk show one day and he doesn't seem too clingy and marry the man in red as he has a better fashion sense and I could rock his snazzy suits if I stole a couple!.”

“To be fair though wouldn’t you need to see what he looks like under the mask first?” Suwako questioned

“Maybe he just has a beautiful soul, he runs a death game after all, but yeah to really make the decision we would need to get the mask off, first to seduce him and find out that information gets one thousand coins?” Victor offered out his hand. Suwako quickly grabbed it and shook it.


“Betting!” Sigmund announced loudly in a desperate attempt to change the conversation, luckily for him the idea caught the attention of not only his drinking buddies but some of the bar's other patrons, with the next fight about to start.
 
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With her heart torn to rags, Toga storms through the Syntech halls like a woman on a mission. Interns and employees, spotting the rageful glare in her eyes, dart into side-rooms or press themselves against the walls to get out of her way. They were well aware that, even when she was in the best of moods, she was dangerously violent. Now she looked ready to gut anyone who so much as got within arms reach. Of course, they wouldn’t have known that she was far too engrossed in her own thoughts to pay them any more mind than a hurrying mother would pay to an ant on the side of the road.

“Oh, don’t worry Toga,” she growled softly to herself, putting on a fairly good Karl Jak imitation, if a bit high-pitched in mockery. “Kevin would want to be dead. Just go get yourself a bit of counseling, and you’ll be fine.”

As each word passed her lips, the usually peppy teenager grew more irritated. White-knuckled fists clenched at her sides, she ran over the little exchange she’d had with Karl and her grief and anger reached a boiling point. Like a kettle, she stopped in the middle of the hallway and shrieked at the top of her lungs. If it hadn’t been empty before, it certainly was by the time the last of the echoes died away and her eyes dropped back down from the ceiling tiles she’d been staring at.

“Who told you you could die, Kevin? Huh?!” she asked the uncaring air. “So, you just always do everything Papa says, huh?! Just go run off to that pretender’s little… fake Dante’s Abyss and die because Karl Jak told ya too?”

Again, she fell to her knees, trying, desperately, to hold back the sobbed tightening her chest. Hands clenched tightly over her heart, she bowed her head and silently offered a prayer to her lost friend. “You… you can have your little break,” she said softly to herself. “Enjoy your vacation… But you better come back one day… So I can kill you myself.”

Even Toga didn’t know if she really meant that. But it felt good to say anyway, like a promise that meant that Kevin had to come back. She… she was going to miss him. She didn’t really have many friends. Zoola Bear hadn’t returned her messages in over a year, and everyone else here always avoided her. Especially after her marriage. She knew she could be a bit… overly enthusiastic sometimes, but… it still hurt. And, sure, Kevin had only ever been around her because Karl made him, but he was still her friend, dammit!

After a moment, or maybe an eternity, (Toga couldn’t tell how long it had been) she got back up and dusted off her legs. The tears seemed to be over, for now, and she had something else she wanted to do anyway. That Red Rip-Off had ‘invited’ some jack-ass in a mask to his little show, and she was still pissed off about it. Papa had just laughed when she’d complained about it, and no wonder! He had his own little army of fake Jasons anyway! Why would he care that this Myers guy was totally stepping on her husband’s style!

A new wave of irritation washed over Toga as she stormed off again. A different source, but no less powerful for that. She was going to get back to watching the Death Games, because she’d be damned if she missed the moment when that loser bit the dust. It’d be a nice story to tell Jassy about later.
 

Sandor Clegane

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“Well, I say, I say, that’s just damn preposterous! Boy! You hear me? I said, boy! What kinda bull-hickey is that!?”

He thumped his mug down on the counter, splashing froth in an arc across the wooden surface. Prone to gesticulating wildly, he flapped his arm at the TV angrily, digits curled into a feathery fist.

“Bull-hickey, I’ll say. That’s what that is right there, bull hickey, you hear me boy!?”

“Listen Mister Leghorn…” the barkeep, a middle-aged man with the beginnings of grey creeping across his temples, approached the patron’s spot at the bar. “I’m going to need you to keep it down. I don’t want to have to throw you out again.”

“That damn crab is gonna take me for all I’m worth!” the rooster blustered on, thumping his mug on the counter again. “I say, I say, what the Hell was that!?

He shook his fist at the television again, which depicted the penguin, Rory, jetting through the air in a sloppy parabola, grimacing. Flightless bird? Yeah, right. Team Rocket, eat your heart out. Foghorn Leghorn jumped to his feet, slamming his mug again, and clicked his beak angrily.

“I’ve got good coin ridin’ on that bird! You hear me, boy!? Good coin! Well this is just about the, I say, about the worst damn thing I’ll say I’ve seen since - and I mean, what about birds of a feather!? I say, I say, he’s losin’ me my coin, boy! He’s losin’ me my coin!”

Leghorn reached across the counter and actually seized the barkeep by his lapels, yanking him close, while the barkeep’s jaw fell open and the glass in his hand fell to the floor, shattering. The rooster proceeded to shake the man violently, shouting in his face, spit flying.

“Losin’ me my credits, boy! Do ya understand me!? Losin’ me my credits! That damn crab is gonna take me to the cleaners, boy!”

The smell of stale Pabst washed over the barkeep’s face, who wrinkled his nose in disgust. He yanked himself free of the drunk rooster with an indignant exclamation, then looked at the broken glass on the floor.

“That’s it, Leghorn. You’re outta here.”

Even as he was ejected bodily from the bar, Foghorn Leghorn’s bluster trickled in through the open door.

“You hear me boy!? My coin! My coin, boy! I say, I say, it’s my coin!”
 

King Shark

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“Say, don’t you have one just like that?”

The fire crackled, bathing them both in warmth. Two armchairs sat nearby, juxtaposed in opposing colors. One, a deep maroon, held an elderly man with skin of crisp leather, a chest length grey beard, and kind eyes that hid behind smudged spectacles. He was known to clean them with the same rag he honked his nose blows into. A gnarled finger shook above his lap, pointing at a television set…one of the old ones with rabbit ears. One of the really old ones.

The other armchair, a forest green, held a young blonde man, garbed similarly to the elderly man in red chambray underneath a set of dusty biballs that wanted, no, needed replacing…which would likely never happen. His hair, so fine a blonde that it shone like spun gold, was flecked with straw that betrayed the day’s work he’d put in. Other than that, he looked content, unnaturally so. Scowl lines around the outside of his mouth and nose and creases above his brow said that his unusual expression was something fouler, but an honest day’s work has an effect on a soul, even an explosive one.

Bakugo made a noise, more of a noncommittal throat clearing than an actual response, but that was the language they shared. The old man nodded, and his weathered hand fell back into his lap. His other hand, holding a bottle of beer on the arm of the chair, crawled up to his lips. He took a sip.

“Thought so. Knew I’d seen’t it somewhere,” he said, breathing out a sigh after his sip that some folks found unbearable, and Bakugo found endearing. “Doesn’t that thing, uh…”

He looked over at Bakugo, whose ruby eyes remained on the television.

“Doesn’t it turn you into some kind of super powered woman with a turtle shell? With the fire breathing, and the strength, and stuff?”

Bakugo made that non-committal throat clearing noise again, a brief but phlegmy sound common to those that labor in the dusty fields.

A comfortable silence grew between them, and hung there for a little while.

Then the old man shifted in his seat.

“So, is your money on that pair?”

He meant the pair with the gun, the plasma cannon, the Super Crown, and the hooked staff, Bakugo knew. Was his money on that pair? He thought back to his own experience in the Death Game, the one that’d sent him to an early grave. He thought back to the Sigma Virus infecting his mind, to fusing with Deku, to becoming three minds in one body, and then to dying. But he’d put up a Hell of a fight before that, hadn’t he? How much of that had been the crown, and how much of that had been him? Not much of it had been Deku, he told himself, though on his sleepless nights he was troubled with the possibility that it might’ve been. Little of it was Sigma, though. He was pretty sure of that.

Some of it had been the crown. The way it made him feel...he’d literally clawed his way out of Hell tooth and nail with that thing on his skull, fueled with adrenaline and a strength and durability that simply wasn’t there crownless. And heck, he was a pretty damn good looking woman, wasn’t he? No denying that. Certain feelings that came along with that, too, no doubt.

“Mmph,” Bakugo answered, chewing over his thoughts.

“...right,” the old man answered, not unkindly. “Well, I guess we’ll see where it goes, won’t we? Oh! Would you look at that!”

He was looking at it, obviously. They both were.

“...I think they’ve run into somebody else! Guess we’ll get to see that thing in action, won’t we?”

Bakugo’s mind rolled over to the chest in his room, the one where his own Super Crown sat gathering dust, and he wondered when he’d need to dust it off again. How long had it been? A year? Two? Time and hard work had dulled his edge, and his flame had burnt down to coals. …still warm, though. Probably always would be.

He took a sip of milk and let out a sigh just like the old man’s.
 

King Shark

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Later, when the clarity of hindsight told them that it hadn’t been a fight at all and instead had been a murder, Bakugo and the Old Man watched the commentators filibuster their way around and then into the fight.

“And then they shot him right in the face!” the television exclaimed, tinny and reverberant. “What do you make of that, Lenny?”

Lenny paused, blotchy in the smudged resolution of the Old Man’s dated television, stroking his chinstrap beard.

“Well, I’ll tell you, Howie, I don’t think any of us were surprised about that. And I’ll let you in on a little secret…we all knew Mid-Boss was on his way out, it was just a matter of when.”

“I thought the penguin would go first, honestly,” Howie replied, and he looked like he meant it. “I mean…facing down a…whatever that thing was. I can’t believe he managed to actually harm that thing. We’ve got some real doozies out there this year, huh?"

“Let’s get down to brass tacks, though,” Lenny asserted, but Howie lifted up a finger to interrupt him.

“I’m sorry, are you saying brass tacks, or brass tax?” Howie asked, frowning.

“Brass tacks,” replied Lenny, making a hammering motion.

“I thought it was brass tax,” continued Howie, making a gesture like a man collecting money from a register. “Tax.”

“No, it’s tacks,” Lenny informed his co-host, shaking his head. “The phrase comes from a time when folks would measure fabric by pounding tacks into the cloth at measured out intervals.”

Silence hung - a big no-no on network television - before Howie chuckled.

“Nobody likes a know-it-all, Len. …but, uh…you were saying? Brass tax?”

“Tacks,” corrected Lenny. “Yeah, I was saying, let’s get into the core of the thing. Let’s talk about the crown. The first big pick-up, and we haven’t gotten to see it in use yet, right? I mean, sure, we’ve seen that it morphed Muscles-McGee into a woman, but we haven’t really seen what it does.

“Well, Leonard-ol’-pal…let’s give our viewers a look at what to expect! Here’s some footage of a Death Game contestant from a few years ago - a young Katsuki Bakugo, age sixteen, who snatched up the Super Crown a few years ago.”

The television cut to a montage, while Bakugo’s eyes widened. Images of himself flashed across the screen in few second intervals: one where he fired off a rat-a-tat-tat rhythm with a Tommy Gun (the Chicago Typewriter), one where he zeroed in on something on a green-glass eyepiece, and one where Princess Bakugo resplendent in her shell regalia bore down on the robo-baddy Sigma with claw and fang.

“Wow, look at him go, Len.”

“Her.”

Back to the anchors, and Howie frowned at his co-host.

“What?”

“When he puts on the crown he comes she, just like Flak when he put it on and he-”

“You know, I’ve had just about enough of your shi-”

The screen went blank, then shifted to a message about ‘Technical Difficulties’.

Bakugo and the Old Man exchanged a glance.

“Well…time to hit the hay, then, I guess,” the old man stated, putting his hands on his knees in that universal sign of dismissal.

Bakugo stood up quietly and ‘hmphed’ out a goodnight, then set out for the stairs. Maybe the time had come to dig his own Super Crown out. The Bakugo in that footage? Now that was a spitfire. …what had happened to him?
 
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King Ghidorah

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The longhouse was silent, save for the crackle of the fire upon the hearth and the laboured breath of a dozen armed and armoured figures where they sat clustered around a long, rough-hewn wooden table – a table upon which rested a single, battered crystal ball.

The scent of overcooked vegetables mixed with the stink of grease, iron, and unwashed bodies. Tension-sweat dripped upon the bed of rushes which covered the packed earthen floor.

A sound broke the silence – the sound of boisterous color-commentary, overlaying the image projected from the enchanted orb.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHH! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT! HE’S GETTING UP! THE PENGUIN LIVES, FOLKS! THE PENGUIN-

With a mighty roar the man seated at the head of the gathering, a red-haired giant with gemstones braided in his beard, gilded armor and a double-bladed battle-axe slung across his back grasped the crystal and shattered it against the wall. He flipped the table length-wise with such force that it punched a hole in the roof, coming to rest at an angle, half-in and half-out of the building. He grabbed his nearest thane and roared in the man’s face.

“THE PENGUIN?! LIVES?!”

The remaining men sat on their benches, shocked but not surprised. One of them gathered himself enough to speak.

“It appears so, my lord.”

“I WON’T HAVE IT! HOW?! How can that INFERNAL FLIGHTLESS BEAST endure?! He must PAY! HE MUST PAY for my KINGDOM!

The red-haired ruler hurled the man he held aside and roared incoherently, burying his axe in the underside of the upturned table, splitting it lengthwise in a fit of pique.

“BRING ME THE WIZARD! WE REQUIRE A NEW CRYSTAL! THE BIRD’S POWER IS SPENT AND BY THE ARBITERS GRACE I WILL SEE HIM DEAD WITH MY OWN EYES BEFORE THIS NIGHT IS DONE!”
 
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Maximus

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The strange box with light appeared with more news as both roman Generals watched with intent, mostly watching each other and the strange light change colors yelling out the latest news from Death game.

"And ohhhhh, Larry! His lucky streak is about to RUN OUT today! He just ran into the fearsome Narzal! Some say the Narzal is some sort of ghost of some sort, and that ghost somehow was almost ripped apart by the last contestant out there!"

The man had to pull his fellow solider away from the television set as the realization sunk in that Vatallion was dead yet again...
 

King Ghidorah

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The workshop, as any good workshop did, smelled of solder and machine-oil, bottled lightning and burning wire. Beneath the looming shadow of a fifteen-meter gantry containing the half-finished torso of a mighty machine of war, a bald, fit middle-aged woman in overalls, filthy sneakers, and nothing else, sat at a work-bench scattered with bearings, circuitry and superconducting myomer fibers, tools and components of all sorts.

She wasn’t paying attention to any of that, or to the clangs, shouts and buzzes from elsewhere in the workshop. Her eyes were glued to the holographic vid-window open in front of her, her hearing eclipsed by the tinny voice nattering from the earbud clipped to one ear.

Within the projection-window the Iron General, Franky Shogun, strode proudly through the rain.

This one is a turn-up for the ages, folks! That is one sexy, savage engine of war! Our other competitors better think twice before bullying this bird again!

In horrified shock, she touched her trembling lips, muffling a pained gasp. Long-ago memories of fire, death, searing laser-light and deafening explosions, burning homes and broken dreams, and a stubborn insistence that naw, mang, everything would be fine, just be patient, flickered across her mind’s eye.

“Those DA-knockoff idiots,” she whispered. “What have they done?”
 
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Arthur Morgan

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Aileen Devane slumped in her chair, pipe clenched between her teeth and booted feet propped atop her desk, denting the covers of a few first aid manuals and hopelessly crinkling some half-finished paperwork regarding the Death Game's resurrection guidelines. Her appearance was a sight to behold— the dark circles under her eyes seeming especially pronounced, her spiky red ponytail better described as 'horribly chaotic' than 'tastefully disarrayed.'

Her eyes stayed firmly locked on the flickering television screen before her, witnessing as her colleague worked with feverish intensity to mend the wounds of an injured Mister Satan. A faint suggestion of a smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth, though her face still showed signs of a very subtle, blink-and-you'll-miss-it worry.

"That's my girl," she muttered to herself, a whispered mantra of encouragement that the fuzzy, silent figures on-screen could not possibly hear. The room around her was silent, perfectly empty; no one around to see just how pale and wan the woman looked, fear for the safety of her friend etching deep, worried crags into the lines of her face. "Just like I taught you."

Sighing heavily, Aileen tore her pipe from her mouth in a fit of frustration, the painstakingly-carved wood clattering loudly as it struck her desk. Her gaze inevitably drifted down, settling on the unassuming paper roster clenched in her tight, white-knuckled grip.

#001 -- Coda Nitai, it read, the words typed in dispassionate, bold-faced font. Her eyes carefully skimmed the page, eyebrows furrowing further the more she read.

On paper, Coda Nitai was quite the conundrum; a genetic and behavioral paradox so extraordinary that it boggled the mind. She had expressed in confidence to Aileen, once, about how she'd spliced her DNA with that of a quite infamous (and quite fictional) individual from her home universe— a ruthlessly ambitious, double-dealing, scheming, domineering, misanthropic, cruel and most of all calculating man who desired power and control above all else, showing little regard for humanity.

This individual's unusual traits shone through in Coda in all the most curious and distinctly alarming of ways— from the peculiar pallor of her skin to the fierce reptilian glare of her eyes. Her steely superhuman biology and heightened intelligence, too, was all thanks to her unwitting genetic donor— a part of her that was as relentless and unyielding as a tiger, looking upon both friend and foe alike with equal disdain, cunning and merciless to the last.

And yet, beneath her cold exterior and much like Aileen herself, Coda was a healer at heart. A soft-natured girl who felt things more intensely than some might be inclined to believe, experiencing every emotion in its fullest form— her sensitivity often leading her astray. She craved affection and connection, eagerly forming attachments to anyone who even glanced in her direction, and that worried Aileen.

"But why?" Aileen could remember well, had been the primary question on her tongue when she'd asked Coda her reasons behind tampering with her genetics in such a foolish way. Aileen couldn't even begin to understand. Why would she modify herself, the quiet, peaceful, sensitive Coda, to be more like such an indisputably loathsome individual. A powerful one, for sure, but still. Utterly loathsome.

Coda hadn't hesitated for a second in giving her answer.

"Because I was weak, before. Pitiful and cowardly. I was meant to be our medic, and I always gave it my all, but the constant battles we were getting into... I couldn't do anything," she said, frustration leaking into her tone as she gave a rough shake of her head. "I needed to protect my friends, somehow. After a while, I realized... sometimes it takes becoming something abhorrent to protect those you love."

And now, observing Coda's gentle touch when tending to the broken Mr. Satan from the other side of a flat-screen television, Aileen was not so sure which part of Coda would win out.
 

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I felt myself among the various gods and goddesses including Summer who seemed to float among my body as it laid within the mountains. There was nothing I could do about that, sadly.

Though it was a very odd prophetic dream as I snapped open my eyes.

“AHHHHHH!” My voice echoed through the spectator area as it seemed empty as a few people seemed to stare my way.

But how? How did I live again?

I watched the television as a man with black hair, an assassin of some kind and a quite different looking Flak, loot what was left of the Nasgil and my body. He lifted a belt off my body as he took my weapon and the prize, I fought so hard for, among many others.

I decided to watch the rest of the death game as I found myself in my armor again.
 
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“Mrs. Voorhees, please… This is highly inappropriate. I could get fired… or worse…” the man protested feebly, the last part under his breath. Toga could feel how tense he was underneath her, and it helped to sooth her tattered nerves a bit. Now that she was eighteen, she found it even more fun to mess around with Papa’s cadre than it had been when she was underaged. Before, a part of their nervousness came from her age. Now, it was all her, and it thrilled her to know that their terror hadn’t lessened just because she wasn’t a kid anymore.

Reclined a bit more into the guy’s lap (who was it again? Larry? Honestly, they all looked the same to her), she reached over her head and placed an alabaster finger against his lips, looking up at his anxious features. He was a modestly attractive man, for his age, balding a bit at the temples, but with hair yet unwhitened by the years. A strong roman nose held up his black-rimmed glasses, framing startling blue eyes for a guy with such dark hair, and he was only a little bit overweight. He was cute, Toga admitted to herself, but nothing on her own man. She could never really be attracted to a guy who couldn’t take a little playful stabbing.

“Shhh! This is the best part!” she admonished him before turning her attention

The room fairly shook with sound as she watched the mech suit of the penguin smash into Michael Myers again. Kicking her legs with childish glee, she suddenly leaned forward and pumped her fist enthusiastically.

“That’s what you get, you plagiarizing bastard!” she shouted at the screen in front of them with a wide grin plastered across her face. She knew her hubby wouldn’t have been nearly so easily beaten, and it pleased her heart to see Myers get creamed by a flightless bird in a tin-can.

“You can blame Papa for not paying out for more comfortable furniture!” she retorted, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow and eliciting a choked cough of pain from the flabby guy. That wasn’t really fair, of course. Karl definitely didn’t skimp on the luxuries. But she had really needed the pick-me-up after what had happened with Kevin, and nothing really beat mild torture when it came to lifting her mood. Well… almost nothing.

“Alright! Let’s see it again!” she said, her gleeful grin spreading wider as she lifted the remote to rewind the recording.
 

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Indirectly, the ex-Legatus sat at a bar full of flat screen television boxes that shone bright light, nursing a wine which a lot of the guys in the bar raised an eye at and slid a beer his way.

“Are you kidding me? You’ve never tried a beer before?” One guy had to raise an eyebrow and lightly smirked.

The bartender eyed the drink “Oh that’s just a regular beer, Crossroads’s favorite.”

Vatallion eyed the wine and the beer, instinctively eying both, choosing to go back to the wine and continued sipping at it.

“Wait until I finish my wine.” The roman turned and continued sipping his wine while watching the bar crowd yelling at a television.

The bartender blinked “Wait, you ar- were a contestant in the Death games, right?””

Vatallion chose to not answer him “...”

The man looked up and said “I knew you looked familiar. You are the one that defeated the Naszil right?”

Vatallion looked up at the man and frowned “Yeah, that was me.”

“Too bad you didn’t pick up the prize, heard something on the television that two known as Trevor and Princess Flak picked up the prize.”

Vatallion looked up at the screen and eyed the close on the prize he seemed to be “lying on”, a ring of some sort. The ex-solider sighed and blinked, he swore for a moment one of his gods, Ares, or Nemesis had temporally possessed his body to smash a ghost that damn hard.

“OH! Look at that, Larry, the tides might have been turned on in this game due to this new development.”

The ex-Legatus blinked and crossed his arms, now focused on the female version of the Wyrm general and general of the Black hole.

Maybe he’d bench-press with that man again someday.

The Legetus rejected the beer and placed a note on it “Thanks, owe you one for the benchpress. Maybe we might run into each other again.
 

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Vatallion got up holding what he had in his glass of wine and slammed it on the table once he looked up at the television.

“And oh! Coda has hit the boss named Godfrey! As I recall, another contestant ran into him earlier, right Larry?”

Yes! Let’s hope this guy can fight this boss here, right?”

“Fushia!” (Fuck!)

He’s looking between two television sets eyeing both as one contained Coda and Godfrey and Flak and Shinku in another screen.
 

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“And it appears that Coda is fighting the Eldren ring warrior themselves with no help, folks!” Larry cried aloud while reading a paper.”

It made the Ex-Legatus spit take his wine over the floor.

So much so that the bar around him started chanting “Coda, Coda, Coda!”
 

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The sky overhead is dishwater-grey. The clouds, a lumpy-smooth mashed-potato canvas, whip past at impossible speed, a VHS on fast-forward. A body of water, dark and crystal-smooth, extends to a distant tree-line. Both the trees and the water flicker, subtle leaps and jerks of change, symptomatic of the same unnatural acceleration which has overtaken the heavens.

We – whoever it is we are in this moment - are standing on a wooden pier, jutting forth into the water, a line of parallel planks fastened to heavy wooden beams, ringed by old tires bound to the frame with rope. At the end of the pier, there is a man. He fills the world, somehow separate from the rapid playback that has overtaken this little pocket of space and time, somehow more real.

He faces away from us, powerful, lithe and tall, with knee-length dark brown hair tied in a complex braid. He wears the clothes of a man who works outdoors, worn jeans and heavy, mud-caked boots, and a leather bomber-jacket, patched at the elbows. His hands, callused and scarred, are clasped behind his back as he looks out over the water with total, pensive confidence.

“… Hello again, Rory.” He says. His voice is a pleasant tenor, with the slight rasp of a man who spends a tremendous amount of time talking.

He turns his head, looking over his shoulder, revealing a striking profile. In the very moment his eye, a black void containing nebulae, constellations, the weft and swirl galaxies, comes into view, the rest of the world abruptly freezes.

It is he who flickers now. He is wearing the jacket and he is not, clad instead in a simple black tunic. There is a broadsword sheathed at his hip, angled for a rapid cross-draw, there and gone moment by moment. His hair is shorter and darker, a ponytail, and yet the braid twists and sways, set in motion when he turned his head. His skin is a deep and unbroken tan, but between the clock-ticks of seconds miniscule runes, the bruised and radiant script of a dark and hellish library, flicker and dance across flesh as pale as a corpse.

It's more than disorienting - it's positively unsettling, giving the strong impression that there are two nearly-identical people occupying not just the same space, but the same existential niche.

Within his eye, the starscape flickers as well – and in its churning depths we can see a heavily bandaged penguin sharing soup with a vampire who is also a nurse.

A thin, grim smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“I see you’ve made a new friend. Now, I realize it is the name of the game, and you never do it on purpose, but maybe try not to kill this one?”
 
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