DGS3 -- Spectator Central

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King Ghidorah

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The tavern was crowded, greasy, and reeked of beer, peanuts and fast money. The wood panelling was fake, the TVs were ancient CRT monstrosities, the lighting was bad and the clientele were scum.

Or at least, they affected the aesthetic of scum. Some of them were probably actual scum, but the Carnivale had gone to so much trouble to provide an authentic dive-bar experience as one of the options for spectators that it really was hard to tell the posers from the genuine article.

As the challenge rang out over the staticky, authentically janktastic sound-system and the air filled with flying beer-cans and shouted wagers, A penguin stood on the bar and raised his flippers to the heavens, tears streaming down his face, running rapidly across his dapper and sleekly-oiled coat.

“Yes, business-dressed-boobs-d00d! YES! Avenge me, d00d! Vengeance for … no, actually screw that, mang. I’m fine.”

He patted his little button-up satchel affectionately, once again affixed to his tummy by a belt.

“Acausal cognitive-uplink to a bioprinter in my fanny-pack. Cash-cash money, d00d.”

Rory sighed inwardly. It *had* cost cash-cash money – or at least the raw inert carbon/nitrogen gel-cubes and assorted additives that his luggage needed in order to make him a new body had.

The penguin shook himself, remembering that he was having a moment. Both the tears and his righteous fury rose once more.

“Still though…VENGEANCE! VENGEANCE FOR FRANKY-SHOGUN!”

Rory honked his towering anger at the heavens, thrusting one flipper at one of the grainy TVs.

“I LOVED THAT ROBOT, MANG! THAT CRIMSON DOUCHE-LORD GAVE ME SOMETHING I LOVED and then his MC-Hammer looking superpowered hair-gel enthusiast TOOK IT AWAY!”

He turned to the crowd, many of whom had already bought him drinks, and many more of whom were staring at him.

“VENGEANCE, D00ds! I hope that regal landshark bites his legs off, mang. And the pretty-boy steals his lunch money, and the big guy in the loud suit slaps him until he forgets the taste of his favorite crayons, and the lady-d00d makes fun of his suit and the scary-looking one-eyed runway-model eats his stupid, stupid mask.”

Rory coughed once, clearing his throat. “For Franky-Shogun.”

Rory paused, hopping back down on his bar-stool. “And Peter.”

The resurrected Penguin turned back to the television as a random patron handed him another beer.

He didn’t want to miss a thing.

The Man in Red was about to get his.

“And maybe actually a little bit for me too, d00d. I had a really bad time. All my friends freakin’ died for real, mang. I’m allowed.”
 
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Kieran was at his computer desk, working on his latest Carnivale Rosa sketches when he heard the loud knock on his bedroom door.


"Go away…" Kieran said in his usual tone meant for the usual suspects that would come knocking, in the usual way.


"Hey, mom said a package came for you today…do you still want me to go away?" His younger brother's deep voice came from the other side of the closed door, and within an instant he was at his own door, throwing it open and trying to snatch the large brown parcel out of his brother's hands before the larger boy could realize. His brother, for his part, just kept his grip tight and smiled.


Kieran always assumed his mom must have quit smoking after he was born, and that was the reason for the size difference between the two boys, or maybe it was Kieran's intense lactose intolerance that kept him from getting enough calcium as a kid. Either way he had to use both his hands, and put a foot on the wall to pry it from Jacob's massive hands that matched his massive frame that filled the doorframe.


Wrenching the package free, he returned to his computer chair and started opening it immediately.


It was finally here! He ran his fingertips of the Carnivale Rose trademarked logo on the box that marked it as official merchandise.


Kieran removed the shirt first, and put it over his other shirt he was wearing then went to his mirror. He smiled looking at himself and running his hands over the graphic on the front. The smile faded when the bassy tone of Jacob chirped up from behind him.


"What is that? Some of those nerds from that fake show you're obsessed with?"


"The Thundersharks are not nerds, YOU'RE A NERD"! Kieran shouted back without thinking, then only had time to give an audible gulp before he was unceremoniously put in the same headlock that Jacob had been using on him for years.


"What did you call me? Huh? Huh? What did you call me?" Jacob accentuated each rhetorical question with a sharp flick on Kieran's forehead. "Oh look, your fake heroes on their fake show look like they are about to fake die…" and Jacob turned them both towards the large computer monitor, the older brother still in a headlock.


"What? They're meeting The Man in Red? Jacob stop, stop. I give up." And Jacob actually let go hearing the strain and fear in his victim's voice.


"Does that usually happen?"


"This never happens…what? Oh no, no, no!" Kieran became frantic, and sat down in his chair, as Jacob leaned over his shoulder curious. "That’s not fair! No! Don't do it Thundersharks" and he hugged the image of a ghostly Mr. Satan smiling down on the rest of his companions as they all posed on a cliff face that was on his shirt; the same image that would also be in the box with other limited edition merch that had just been released that morning.


The brothers looked on as the scene in front of the bonfire played out, the seated older brother jumping up when his new favorite team chose for option "C" and attacked the host. Tears of sadness turning to tears of joy and streaming down his face as the scene concluded.


"Shhh"! Jacob chided his brother, "You’re freaking out worse than when that weirdo with the afro died…calm down-"


"Mr. Satan was a damn saint and a hero! You shut your whore mouth, Jacob or so help me!" And Kieran reached into the Carnivale Rosa merch box and thrust a Nanaue figurine in his brother's face, threateningly. Jacob just shook his head and pushed the Demigod Shark away.


"Well, I'm glad your nerds seem to have won, or whatever….Is that supposed to be the Coda lady with the sunglasses?" Jacob asked, pointing to the desk with the newest sketches.


"Yeah, I haven't gotten her eyes right though…"


"I think you got her chest wrong, too dude…wait, did you draw all the female contestants with giant b00bs?" and Jacob snatched up some of the sketches and held them high enough so Kieran couldn't reach. "Did you draw a naked picture of the shark guy too? Oh wow… Bro, you have got to get a life…"


"Just get out of my room!" Kieran shouted back, covering his latest decent and indecent drawings as his brother let the papers float to the floor.


"Whatever dude, have fun playing with your new dolls…" and Jacob strolled out of the room, leaving his door open on purpose.


"THEY'RE COLLECTABLES!" Kieran shouted back, and scoffed. He reached in the box and took the rest of the mint figurines out and placed them on his desk, making sure to keep the two Yakuza next to each other with the disco ball between them. Then he reached into his desk and took out the Kieran figurine he had made and placed it with the rest of the group he had become obsessed with over the last few days.


"Come on, Thundersharks! You got this, d00ds…" he said quietly and went back to watching the events on his monitor.
 

Sigmund Vrell

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Sigmund gently massaged his temples, thankful that he had managed to avert an aneurysm right in the nick of time. Still, now he had to throw some coin down and put his literal money where his figurative mouth was. Up on the screen was a soldier of some kind, clearly decorated, as well as some sort of wolf man, both clearly converging on one another.

“He’s going to win.” Victor said nonchalantly as he gestured at the soldier.

“That was quick.” The high priest murmured, quirking an eyebrow. He took another look at the man in question, Vitallion. He certainly seemed capable and had a decent enough weapon, but there was nothing particularly stand out about him. “What makes you so certain?”

“Look at him!” The assassin explained, gesturing at the screen. “That armour, that poise. A soldier through and through, he won’t get taken down by some wolf.”

“Hmm, hmm, I see what you’re saying.” Suwako said, nodding sagely. “500 on the wolf.”

The other two looked at her, quiet for a moment before a sly grin slid over Victor’s face. “Oh, I see how it is. You’re on.”

The goddess simply shrugged nonchalantly, sipping her sake to hide her own wolfish grin. Wondering what exactly he had gone and gotten himself into, Sigmund rubbed his head and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate.

“Ah… alright, 500 on this Vitallion man.” He sighed.

“Such a betrayal.” Suwako gasped in mock disbelief before both she and Victor broke into a fit of giggles.

“I knew I could rely on you, Siggy.” The assassin grinned, putting an arm around the cultist. “Just don’t get too mad when we’re parading around our full purses, ok Suwako?”

~~~~~~~~~

“Hey, another round on me. I don’t think my friends here can afford it themselves.” The goddess said smugly as she jingled her payout around, much to the chagrin of the loser.

“How could we have known the dog would have a magic gun?” Victor sighed, leaning back in his chair. Sigmund, on the other hand, brooded silently as he compulsively chewed his thumb, surprisingly upset by his failed bet.

“My visions failed me.” He seethed. “Something must be wrong. Something in the air here that’s disrupting my connection.”

“We might need some ice over here too. My friends are pretty sore.” Suwako called before sticking her tongue out. “Sore losers.”

“That was just one bet.” Victor said, slapping his hand down on the bar. “Let’s raise the stakes, eh? Let’s take some bets on winner, first to die, most kills, that kind of thing.”

“Hah! I know better than to chase my bets.” The goddess laughed while the cultist continued to sulk.

“Hrmph. Let’s see who’s competing first.” He sighed as the trio looked through the competitors.

“Yeah, let’s see…” Victor muttered. “Mr ‘Satan’? What a cliche! That guys definitely dying first. And uhhh… this Coda girl, I like the look in her eyes. Most kills. She can definitely slaughter a guy with her bare hands…”

As the assassin searched for someone that he thought would win, Sigmund took one glance at the screen before spraying his wine in a magnificent spit take in the general direction of Victor and Suwako. As the red cloud cleared, however, there was not a drop on either of them.

“DID YOU SEE- wait, what?”

“That was the weakest danmaku I’ve seen in centuries.” Suwako scoffed, shaking her head as if she were talking to an amateur (which she technically was).

“I’ve got to agree.” Victor nodded. “There was less chance of that hitting me than Agate has of hitting in general. Now, what’s the big idea?”

Sigmund bristled momentarily at the jab at his followed but let it go, there were more important matters to attend to. Jabbing an accusatory finger at the screen, the cultist almost shrieked as he tried to get his point across.

“That’s a Gal’skap-damned false angel.” He spat vitriolically. “It’s a living weapon, a facsimile of a human. It’s so creepy!”

Victor blinked, giving a look to Suwako that said ‘Did I drink straight ethanol?’, receiving a baffled shrug back.

“Now Siggy, think about those glass houses for a second will you?” The assassin said diplomatically. “Are these ‘false angels’ strong?”

“Yeah, they’re pretty strong.” The cultist nodded. “This one is probably weaker because it’s cut off from the people who feed it power, and it’s collared, but ultimately they’re made to fight the divine spawn of the Old Ones.”

“Well, that settles it then.” Victor said. The high priest wondered what he was about to do, vaguely hopeful regardless. Perhaps he was going to put a hit out on the thing, or-

“My money’s on Cupid to win this thing.” The diplomat declared proudly, drawing an agonized groan from his cultist friend, which in turn drew a peel of giggles from his goddess friend.
 

Fenix

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Suwako's grin hadn't faded as the tournament continued. Vic and Sigmund were both watching, the betting now fading a little as the fights got too hectic for the bar to keep facilitating them (and a few fights being stopped only by a certain babylonian lord putting the fear of Victor into the hearts of anyone threatening to ruin his afternoon)

"So, Siggy." the goddess asked, getting the Cultist's attention, "how do you feel about that Mister Satan guy, then?"

"mister... you mean the clown with the 'fro?"

"yeah. I think he's got a good enough chance."

that got a look from Victor with an amused grin. "If you mean a chance at first one dead, sure. Not the kind of guy that goes far in these, trust me."

Suwako chuckled. "You guys got no idea. he's gonna do something special in the tourney, I'm pretty sure."

"Listen, Suwako, I know he's named Mister Satan, but I promise you, he's an ordinary guy. No satanic power acts like that buffoon on-stage."

Suwako just gave a giggle in response. "You two really are young pups, aren't you? that's why] he's going to get up to something."

This got a share of attention from Sigmund. "While I'll admit the rocket launcher is helpful, and the collars are of use, I'm actually inclined to agree with Victor, on this one. Though perhaps working with the..." SIgmund stopped, curling a lip in disgust. "Well, working with that one improves his chances. but I doubt he's going to have much effect on the competition, even with his weapon. he seems rather soft."

"Soft? no, he's human. Entirely human." Suwako replied with a chuckle. "From humans most history is forged. From ordinary humans, a god is made."

"So you're betting on him? How much?" Vic asked with a grin.

"Betting on him. I'm Prophesying" Suwako replied, crossing her arms. "That human's actions will shape the future of this contest."

Sigmund's eyes sparked with interest. "A prophecy?"

Vic just rolled his eyes. "that's her way of saying she's too cheap to put money down."

Suwako just gave a snort. "Well, who knows?" She replied, as her eyes turned to slits. "But mark my words, he's going to be entertaining to watch. from beginning to end."
 

Orion

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With a cathartic sigh, Orion dropped himself onto the first vacant stool at the bar, its cushion torn and exposing the stuffing within. The place could have been cleaner; particles of dust floated and shone within the beams of sunlight pouring through the windows like a constellation of stars. Dried beer and possibly blood stained the wooden, aged bar top. Still, the Saiyan had patroned worse locations.

Orion tapped the bar twice with his finger, drawing the barkeeper’s eye. “Beer.”

The barkeeper threw a towel over her shoulder. “What brand?”

“The coldest one.”

A mug of foaming amber beer slid across the bar to Orion’s open hand. The icy glass tingled against the thick calluses on his palm and fingers. Smirking, the Saiyan let the events of the past few days shrink away, the battle against Saren fading from view, as he drew the mug to his pursed lips.

“… The Chorus! But how much longer can they all –“

Orion’s head snapped to the tiny television set in the corner of the bar’s walls. Did he hear that right? The Chorus?

“Hey!” Orion shouted at the barkeeper with unveiled urgency. “What show are you broadcasting right now?”

“That?” she said, craning her neck to see the screen. “That’s the Death Game. Usually happens once a year. I’ll normally put it on. The locals love it.” Indeed, a group of ten or so patrons gathered around the display with unbroken focus.

“The Death Game?” Orion repeated. He hadn’t heard of it before. “Is its title as explanatory as I’m presuming?”

The barkeeper nodded her head as she stuck a cloth into the base of a glass and moved it about.

Orion considered. “Is it another name for Dante’s Abyss?”

“No, that’s a separate competition,” she said.

“What’s the difference, then?”

The barkeeper shrugged.

“But if you ask me, that Karl Jak fella probably copied the format of the Death Game,” she continued. “I mean, the name of the game is in the title! Why change it to something wanky like ‘Dante’s Abyss’ otherwise? Who even is Dante, anyway?”

Orion heard little of what the barkeeper said. He was focused on the screen.

And there it was. An image of a droid, its armour yellow, skulking about the island. At the bottom of the screen, a small title displayed – #20 – The Chorus.

He hadn’t misheard. Surely it wasn’t coincidence?

Accessing the Death Game entrant data through his NOVA unit, Orion scrolled through the participants until he landed upon The Chorus.

“Shit.”

He grabbed his mug, threw back the contents in one gulp, and brought up Kitriana Wilde’s contact number. Orion caught the barkeeper's eye and motioned to the empty glass.

“Hello?” came Kitriana’s voice within his head. “Orion? I… didn’t expect to hear from you again.”

“I didn’t expect to call,” the Saiyan said as beer filled his mug. “But then again, life is fond of subverting expectations.”
 

John Connor

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Jak was surprised when Daxter was able to change back to human size and he was now older like him as well.

Daxter cursed “AHHHHHH Fuck, I knew these pants wouldn’t fit me as a human now.”

Now the ottsel turned human had ripped pants in the middle of the Uruk bar.

The human Daxter looked embarrassed for a second “Uh, hold on onnnne second!” “Anybody have any extra pairs of clothes?”

Jak held his sword, the one Praxis held in his hands years ago when it rightfully belonged to the heir of the house of Mar, which was him all along.

“PUT SOME DAMN CLOTHES ON, pal!” One of the Uruk patrons yelled out.

Daxter eeped and cursed, looking around for any source of clothing in the bar to cover himself.

The new Jak had grown a green beard, had his father’s armor on and looked fit to be some king himself over time.
 

King Shark

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It was empty.

Bakugo blinked, his mouth slightly agape, ruby eyes roving slowly back and forth across the empty expanse in his storage trunk. It wasn’t supposed to be empty. There was supposed to be a crown in there, a Super Crown specifically. And there wasn’t. There was nothing.

Icy panic slid down his throat, bitter cold, as if funneled right into him from a pitcher. It raced down his gullet and sank down into his stomach with a thick plunk where it came to a stop, feeling ugly, foreign, and unwelcome. He blinked again, shook his head in disbelief, then shut the trunk.

Where is it?

He peered under his bed, actually crawled under it, and found nothing but a few old pairs of socks seasoned liberally with chaff. He pulled open each drawer of his dresser one at a time, rifling through each and flinging garments indiscriminately over his shoulder to land on then decorate his floor in messy piles.

Nothing.

“Hey!” the voice of the old man harkened to him from down the stairs. “I think something’s going to happen! The Man in Red just made an announcement!”

Bakugo moved to his closet and pulled three storage totes out of it, opened them one at a time, and dumped their contents onto the floor where he pilfered through his own possessions with frantic desperation.

“Ya hear me!?” the old man called again, passively jovial the way he always was.

Where. Is. IT!!?

Not in the totes. Not in the items on the floor. He thought, mind racing…not in the closet, not in the dresser, not under the bed, not in the trunk where it was goddamn supposed to be. Where was it!?

Then he remembered something. Bakugo shot to his feet nearly tripping over the rolled cuffs of his overalls and sprinted back to the closet where he stood on his tip-toes and peered over the top shelf.

A crown with its own set of eyes peered back at him.

A sigh of relief shot out of his lips on its own, and he felt a tension in his shoulders ease that he had not known was there. A thin sheen of sweat lined his thin ash brows, which he wiped away with the sleeve of his chambray work shirt, not minding the oil stain spilled across the fabric.

Found it.

He didn’t take it out, but…knowing it was there. That was what he’d needed. Why had he needed to know it was there, though? It had lain there, collecting dust, staring its perpetual stare while he whiled away the days, weeks, and months in mindless toil until-

A footstep on the bottom stair.

“Are you coming down, or what?” the quavering voice repeated. He could hear a trace of concern that had snuck into the tone. “Something’s going on with that teleporter they’d sent those Thundersharks their supply crates with. Folks can head for it, or stay and duke it out. I want to see what they’re going to do.”

Bakugo turned away from the crown feeling ashamed for reasons he couldn’t explain. He walked to his bedroom door, felt the urge to look back over his shoulder, resisted it, then left his room, and walked down the stairs after the old man. A strange silence filled his room in his absence.
 

Arthur Morgan

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The bar was smoky, reeking of cigarette-smoke and too many bodies packed into one room. But there was more to it, an atmosphere of heat and weight that the air seemed to thicken around. One could feel it as they stepped inside, a kind of heaviness that seemed to press down upon their chest with every breath. A palpable thing, like a warning, or perhaps a portent of ill things yet to come.

The ambience in the room had an energy all its own, fed by the murmur of conversations among its occupants— low rumbles between card players and gruff banter between old friends sipping their beers and whiskey, mostly —rising up into the rafters like the lazily swirling smoke of a slow-burning fire during a summer's rain. Muted laughter threaded through conversations here and there before dissolving into the dull whisperings circulating about the room, every eye in the bar drawn to the events unfurling on the television screens littered about the space.

A red-haired woman with her hair done up in a wild, spiky ponytail sat at the bar, her gaze fixed and intent on the television that hung above the liquor display like a glowing beacon, watching the screen with wide, haunted eyes.

Her beer sat untouched in front of her, dripping heavy condensation onto the bar top, as her hands drummed out an anxious rhythm over the wood.

Beside her sat a woman with straight black hair, darker in complexion and manner alike, her legs crossed primly at the ankles. She swirled a martini glass in her hand, the olive garnish spinning and making a faint tinkling sound against the glass. She, too, watched the television screen, her face twisted into a disdainful sneer.

“Your friend will be dead soon, surely,” said the dark-haired woman, raising her martini glass to her lips, the gin shimmering under the dim lights. She took a dainty sip, licking her lips with an elegant darting of her tongue, before speaking again, “Foolish of her to throw away her resources like that, wasting them on those men. More foolish yet to stand by them through such hardship.”

“Shut it, Vivian,” Aileen growled, the sharp malice in her voice aimed like a bullet. She wasn’t drinking, not yet anyways; her stomach was churning in knots, making the prospect seem ill-advised. But in this moment, she dearly wished she was. “I am trying to be a supportive friend.”

Not fazed in the slightest, Vivian looked at her, brown eyes glittering.

“You really do believe she'll pull through, don’t you? Even after everything." She laughed, voice ringing with amusement and mock pity. "Oh Aileen, darling. Think of all those stupid little mistakes she’s made thus far… they really add up, you know. The poor little thing is doomed.

But Aileen only shook her head in distaste, scowling. "Nothin' but bad luck, I say," she muttered. "Besides, she's my friend. What, you think I don't know her capabilities better than you do? I know damn well she's competent. Brave, too. She'll make it much further than you might think, mark my words."

“She hasn’t even killed anyone yet,” Vivian insisted, her eyes never once leaving Aileen's face. Her head tipped to the side in keen interest, a smirk ghosting over her lips. “That Unmade warrior... she needed help to take him down, and what pitiful help it was! Do you really think she could stomach it?”

“What, like killing is hard?” Aileen snapped, turning on the other woman with a cold rage burning in her expression. “Try healing for a change. You can break something in a single instant, but it'll take years to put it right again. And Coda's a healer, through and through. We look after our own. But that don't make us pushovers. That's a fact."

Subsiding into a vague smugness, Vivian hmm-ed softly, her eyes returning again to the screen. Depicted there in perfect high definition was Coda, hunched over the body of yet another fallen friend, helpless to do anything but delay the inevitable.

The dark-haired woman shifted on her stool with a light scoff, setting her drink back on the wooden bar top.

"Ah, well then," she sniffed. "We'll just have to see, won't we?"
 

John Connor

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The base was full of soldiers crowding around the television set for the next version of Death Game.

While Connor was away, this is when the soldiers relax and play.

“AND OH! Looks like Flavor tracks his way through the crowd, seems like nobody can stop this fusion.

One solider seemed shocked “That can’t be Connor’s ally, can it?”

Another woman solider replied “Of course not, with that, she doesn’t look like Shinku at all.”

The other man looked up “It’s Trevor, not this Shinku, right?”

One of the higher ups walked by as the soldiers quickly flicked the channel back to another channel.

“Sir! What can I help you with?”
 

Ridley

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Ridley watched the action aboard the dreadnought with a solid, piercing glare. The decision to televise it across ship was creating distraction aboard the vessel, but the dreadnought was in many ways operated better with a few distractions, and it kept his men primed and bloodthirsty, watching the indiscriminate murder.

It also had them whiling away their coin on murder and in-flight drinking, which was always a benefit to Ridley. Keep the foolish poor and wanting more.

The dragon’s tail curled as he adjusted within his bony throne, the bridge’s view screens filled - though kept respectably to the sides of the ship, rather than the front. This was partly to make sure that the command crew remembered they were also driving, but it was also to make sure it stood in Ridley’s peripherals, so he didn’t have to crane to the side. Both eyes had a fantastic view of the action.

His motivation was two-fold - to watch his men in action, and to scout any potential employees for the future.

For the most part, he was satisfied with Lilith’s performance - she had proven her ferocity against all odds and reminded the crossroads at large once again that WYVERN’s iron fist was to be feared, but he was also quite aware he’d be watching her pass quite soon.

That was fine. His little weapon always came back, like a cancer on the crossroads itself, and she knew where to go once she did so - back to his side.

The rest were less predictable. This… Chorus had potential, certainly, but it was an intelligent and cagey being. One he could not fully trust, certainly. But trust was never a simple thing in WYVERN in the first place. He could be bent to Ridley’s purposes - that much was certain, and all that was necessary.

Meanwhile, the

Ridley blinked, long and slow, before continuing the thought.

The Princess of Flavor was altogether an unknown, unpredictable, and frankly ridiculous Variable. He’d sent in the Army General Flak and had watched as the circumstances repeatedly mutated and changed his candidate. Then, he watched as he fused with the contestant known as Trevor O’Skully.

Ridley questioned what this assassins’ motivations and aims were - while his morality and work outside the game were a mystery to the old Wyrm, there were people and sources he could always squeeze to get that information, and of the qualities he noted of the Assassin, his competence was unquestionable.

Besides, Flak seemed the sort of oaf that would be easily appeased by the occasional visit by an old friend. That was useful to Ridley.


The sharkman also had a certain appeal as a potential enforcer. Despite the friendships the beast made, he knew a predator’s hunger when he’d seen it - and Nanaue had a deep, abiding hunger. He could make use of that hunger quite easily. Push the powerful beast into a position befitting his raw strength. He would be marked of interest as well.



The dragon’s claws set gently on the throne, as he appreciated the stage set for the finale. After all the cloak and dagger, it seemed it had come down to a simple gauntlet, one he was looking forward to. While the machinations of these little warriors had seemed interesting, their tendency to self-preservation was beginning to bore the Dragon.

He’d be happy to watch each and every one dissolve into the chaotic mist of violence that was every sentient being’s true nature. And when his own men were done, he expected them to see him again with piles of treasure, courtesy of the man in Red himself.

The old beast couldn’t suppress a sadistic grin.

Until then, he would watch and enjoy every moment.
 

John Connor

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Connor’s trip to another village landed him in a hotel for night as the Commander eyed the television set. He’d heard the Other da finals were on and he’d paused to watch information about the last contestants to watch over time.

Connor studied the tv screen as Flavor was a fusion and seemed to act like both. Another potential enemy or ally in the long run : The chaos. It was an AI as much as Skynet was. He’d felt fear about Ai for the longest time.

Did this Ai share its same goals?

Connor gritted his teeth. He should have known someone would show up like that . His mothers tapes never warned him of new Ai after all.
 

John Connor

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Connor itched his head while staring at Shinku’s progress in the finals. He hadn’t gotten used to calling the fusion favor but just Flak and Trevor .

The people in the bar weren’t used to seeing career soldiers inside said bar even rarer with the name John Connor.

John tried to make himself feel small, eyeing Jack “Interesting, looks like Shinku’s found a new friend or ally in the finals.” “Can’t say I've heard of this fusion thing before except nuclear fusion.”

John took a drink after Jack convinced the Commader he needs to relax a bit. “So, I think this Flavor is going to pull it off?”
 

Shinku

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“Bah! With that oversized bucko! That Shinku’d work better with meself!,” Jack grunted before downing a full mug of beer and slamming it onto the table. A vexed visage openly radiated on the pirate's visage as he watched the live telecast of the death game.

"Oi! Another round of rum 'ere!," he then called out, raising his empty mug to catch the attention of a passing staff.

"I got you sir! I'll be right back with that rum in a bit!," the server gleefully responded, waving a hand as he strode off towards the counter.
 

Orion

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“So… why are you calling?” Kitriana asked.

Orion took a gulp of his new beer. “The Chorus. They’ve joined the Death Game competition.”

Silence came from the other end.

“Kitriana. Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes. Yes, Orion, I did.”

“Then please, elucidate. I thought I left that rampaging AI in your hands. Now I see it’s escaped and landed on prime time.”

“It… it is The Chorus, but not in the way you think,” Kitriana said. “They’re… a control group, for lack of a better term.”

“What… you mean you did something to The Chorus and set them free to see what they’d do?” Orion said.

“No one is in any danger,” Kitriana said.

Orion set his gaze back to the television as the droid blasted another contestant with a blue energy cannon on its arm. “Not from what I’m seeing.”

“If there was a real problem, I would have called you. I know how capable you are. I know how dangerous The Chorus is.”

Kitriana’s tone was defensive, elusive, as if she was afraid to speak directly with the Saiyan. The reason for that was painstakingly clear.

“Listen Kitriana,” Orion said, lowering his voice into a serious tone. “I’m sorry about how I treated you after I lost my Great Ape form. I was… overwhelmed with rage. And I took it out on you. I’ve spent some time, been through another job. I’ve processed the loss, realised how I let my grief consume me. I’ve still got a way to go yet, but I’m on the right track. I just… wanted you to know that. And to not be afraid of me. To ask for my help.”

A deep breath resonated through the connection. “I… thank you, Orion. I knew all of that anger wasn’t you. I’m really happy to hear you’re doing better.”

“I am. And look, if there is an issue with The Chorus, please contact me. I will definitely be there to help.”

“I promise I will, Orion.”

“So just to be clear – there’s nothing to worry about here?”

“No,” Kitriana said. “It’s an experiment, completely under control. If anything gets out of hand, I’ll call.”

“OK. Well… look after yourself, Kitriana. Good luck with your experiments.”

“Thanks, Orion. See you around.”

“Will do.”

Orion ended the call and looked back to the television. The AIs progressed into the final stage of the competition.

The Saiyan didn’t know whether that was a good thing or not.

---

“Ugh!” Kitriana said as the call concluded. “I really didn’t like doing that, Tristelle.”

The translucent hologram of a blue skinned woman materialised beside the researcher. “I know. But it’s best, for now. Orion can’t know what’s going on. He’ll flip out. Trust me on that.”

“I don’t know,” Kitriana said, running fingernails through her hair. “He sounded sincere when he apologised. I don’t think he’d lose his temper if he knew the truth.”

Tristelle laughed mirthlessly. “You haven’t known him as long as I have, dear. We go back decades. I’ve seen that Saiyan’s soul. I’ve been in his mind. If he knew what ‘experiment’ we were pulling, he’d be here instantly to dismantle the whole thing. Violently.”

“Why couldn’t he know that you’re here?” Kitriana asked. “He was with you until the battle with The Chorus, wasn’t he? Wouldn’t he be happy you survived?”

“I really don’t know,” Tristelle said. “After all, I’m the one who told The Chorus about his weak spot. Not willingly, of course. He might be honest about overcoming his anger, or he might just think he is and snap the moment he sees me. Could go either way.”

Kitriana turned her attention back to the giant screen covering the wall and adjusted her glasses. “When can we put the full experiment into motion? It doesn’t look like your algorithms are doing anything.”

“Give it time,” Tristelle said, her holographic projection shattering into dissolving squares. “Give it time.”
 

King Ghidorah

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Rory finished his beer, his bill clattering against the inside of the glass as he licked the last of the frothy suds out of the bottom of the mug. He was standing on the bar-top again, with the drink nestled between his webbed feet and his head cocked at an odd angle so that one beady eye could keep watch on the television.

On the flickering CRT screen, undead and possessed, the Man of Steel slapped a d00d so hard her head spun all the way around and she went down like a sack full of greasy corndogs.

Rory jerked upright, knocking over the now-empty-glass and sending it skittering off the bar, hitting the floor with a horrible crash. Undaunted, he thrust a flipper at the screen.

“D00ds with capes, mang. Every friggin’ time. One minute they’re all fair play and folksy good-cheer and the fundamental goodness of the human spirit and the next thing you know this is what you get! It's all evil swords and bad hygiene until you get slapped so hard your grandma’s dentures fly out of her mouth! If, like, your species has teeth. And your grandma doesn’t.”

The penguin paused, perusing his own allegory. A patron with too many piercing and not enough tattoos handed him another beer, in spite of the increasingly distressed barkeeps protests.

Rory had been drinking a lot, and at some time between tipsy and buzzed he had begun to, with alarming regularity and seemingly totally by accident, shatter every glass that ended up in front of him.

“Whatever, mang. The point is, everyone should have seen this coming, and I’m glad I made that d00d eat sand.”

The inebriated bird resumed drinking as the tavern erupted in a fresh round of bets, shouting, and flying debris.
 
Last edited:

Jak

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The bar was full of inexplicable yelling, betting and frustrations brewing like an active volcano.

“So, what about that Naz guy? He was really killed by the flightless bird, Rory.”

The ex-Roman Legetus who was a calm guy and kept his anger under check was frustrated.

“He was KILLED BY BOTH OF US. What am I, chopped liver?!”

He slammed the wine down on the bar’s table and muttered in Latin.

This made the bar in turn stare at the man awkwardly.
 

Arthur Morgan

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"Coda..."

Awareness crept over Coda slowly, pushing back a thick veil of lethargy as she was drawn to a sluggish sort of wakefulness. Her eyelids felt like they were weighted down with lead, a bright circus of halogen lights swimming in and out of her vision, reducing her senses to a state of near total disarray and grumpy confusion.

Yet, despite this, she felt... warm. Comfortable. A soothing numbness suffused her mind and body alike, like she'd been strapped down and pumped full with all the good drugs, a lingering sensation of needle-sharp coldness twinging in the veins at her wrist. The heavy hand of sleep pressed down on her eyes, making it almost impossible to open them more than a crack— only the tiniest of golden slivers appearing to scrutinize her surroundings.

Stirring further, scratchy blankets rustled against Coda's limbs, the lumpy pillows at her back propping her upright and crinkling beneath her shoulder blades. Before her she beheld her own legs, tucked securely beneath the blanket. Or, in her humble opinion, tightly cocooned and trapped beneath a paper-thin sheet of infuriatingly sandpapery textile sensation.

A soft groan of complaint left Coda's throat, tinged with dryness from lack of proper hydration. She smacked her cracked lips, barely-open eyelids fluttering in contemplation as she debated the merits of succumbing to the sweet embrace of unconsciousness once more or struggling up to the waking world.

A cacophony of machines beeped and whirred around her. In a strange, twisted way, she found the low, repetitive droning oddly comforting. Like a swarm of friendly robotic bees trying to lull her back into slumber.

Heheh. Robees...

Coda let her eyelids droop, her long lashes brushing against her cheeks. But just as her dreams began to take hold—

"Oh, good. You're finally awake," a voice sounded next to her, far too close for comfort. "I was kinda worried about you for a sec, Coda-bear."

Coda's eyes shot open, the fog of sleep instantly cleared away. She gazed in abject confusion at the source of the sound. There was Aileen, her spiky red hair as crazy as ever, perched atop a stool that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere next to Coda's bed. That was weird. When did Coda ever put a stool next to her bed...?

Come to think of it... she didn't have a bunch of whirring, beeping machines around her bed, either. What the hell?

She snapped her head up, cat-like pupils growing large and round with wide-eyed panic, darting to and fro. Glancing around, she could make out the tired white walls of a hospital, the cold fluorescent lighting that seemed to drain away any possible comfort. A limp curtain of privacy hung from a metal rod beside her bed, though she felt no reassurance from it against the bleakness of her surroundings.

"I..." Coda began to speak, but her words caught in her throat, swallowed by a fit of coughing. It was like her windpipe was filled with desert sand, not a drop of saliva to be found. She hunched over, clutching at her throat as she was bent double by her hacking.

Almost as if by magic, Aileen's arm appeared before her in a flash, a styrofoam cup of water grasped in her hand. Coda seized it with unbridled enthusiasm, downing the cold sweetness of the water in a few savage gulps, completely ignoring the gritty, mineral taste that filled her mouth.

Swallowing down one last gulp of water, thin streams of it pooling at the corners of her mouth, Coda turned to stare at Aileen. Her eyes boggled, wide and feverish.

"Aileen," she whispered, with the urgent air of someone who has beheld all the secrets of the universe. "I had the strangest dream."

"Uh-huh," said Aileen, leaning back in her seat with a squeaky creak of vinyl. The purple bags under her eyes seemed deeper now, more pronounced under the hospital lighting. "Tell me about it."

Coda fidgeted nervously, rubbing at the skin of her hands and picking at her nails. She shifted her gaze as she brought her clammy fingers together, tightly wringing them in her lap.

Finally, she spoke, voice rising only a little above a whisper, and still hoarse from her earlier coughing fit. "Well. There was this man. And he looked kind of like me. And he said something like... he said... 'A disappointing result, but not unexpected.' What the fuck does that mean?"

To her surprise, Aileen just bobbed her head in a nod, not seeming all that perturbed. "Nightmares are a common side effect of the rez process, Coda, and so are visions of the medium between this life and the next. What you're feeling right now... the confusion, your racing heart, that impending sense of doom you can't quite seem to shake... it's all the rez. Give it a minute. You'll be right as rain in no time."

"Oh." Despite her misgivings, Coda felt her muscles loosen, soothed by Aileen's words. Then, something in her brain clearly clicked, her face scrunching up in pain as a sharp, agonizing thought zapped through her mind like an electric current— before going slack in dread, her heart plummeting as realization hit her. "Oh nooooo! No no no! The competition! Aileen, my team!"

Frantically wrestling against the itchy cocoon of sheets holding her down, Coda tried to roll out of the hospital bed, grumbling and spitting like a feral cat all the while. Aileen surged to her feet in an instant, restraining her easily with a firm hold on her shoulders.

"Stop it, Coda," she ordered, peering into her face sternly. "That was it, honey. You're out of the competition. Your heart is in pieces, and your vamp friend did the crushing. You can't get back in the game now, even if you wanted to."

Eyes wild and her pupils constricted to fine slits, Coda's gaze darted to Aileen's face. Her lips were peeled back from her teeth in an expression somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, her chest heaving as she struggled to come to grips with reality.

"I..." she struggled to form the proper words, chin and lips quivering from the powerful emotions crashing over her in waves, frigid as the Atlantic. "I can't?"

Aileen shook her head, a hint of pity leaking into her grim, professional demeanor. "No, Coda. You can't. It's over. I'm sorry, honey."

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the mechanical buzz of the machines around them. Then, all at once, Coda seemed to just... deflate.

Her shoulders collapsed inward like a house of cards, her chin hitting her sternum with a dull thud. The air around her seemed to thicken, a tangible aura of darkness that almost felt alive. Her hands lay limp and lifeless in her lap, aching with uselessness.

"That fucking sucks," she croaked, the words barely breaking above a whisper, ragged with emotion. Trepidation slithered through her as she asked, in a much smaller voice, "Am I getting fired?"

"What?" Aileen drew back in surprise, her face crinkling in disbelief. "No way! You and your pals out there were, like, the superstars of that whole fiasco. They'd be stupid to let you go. If anything, I bet you'll be getting a helluva bonus!"

Coda fell silent, seeming to contemplate this for a long moment. To her, the room had become a vacuum; all air sucked away by the depth of her feelings. Still, she gave her quiet thanks as Aileen handed her a fresh cup of water, served from a glass pitcher at her bedside.

The sounds of Aileen tinkering with the pitcher faded into a quiet lull in the background, muffled under the sporadic beeping of the machines. A tentative sense of calm descended upon the room, though it settled like an uncomfortable chill upon Coda's skin, one she dearly wished to shake via action.

She didn't want to be calm. She wanted to get up out of this dumb sickbed and do something. She wanted to... she wanted...

"What if I go on leave for a bit, then," Coda spoke up suddenly, voice slurring and eyes distant. Her hands folded around the cup of water like it was something small and sacred to her. "Go and have an adventure or something. You know, I used to do that a lot. Go on adventures and... stuff..."

Aileen slowly raised her gaze to meet hers, the deep crevices of exhaustion seeming permanently etched into her face. Despite her evident weariness, however, a faint spark of curiosity flickered in her eyes. "Oh really? What kind of adventure?"

Shifty-eyed, Coda averted her gaze, her cheeks blotched with little spots of crimson. Her jaw worked in silence, as if she was struggling to find the words to describe just what she wanted.

"I dunno," she admitted at last, shrugging. "Something nicer than the one I just had, that's for sure. One that feels less... fake."

"You seemed pretty convinced it was all real for a bit there, sugar," Aileen pointed out. At some point, she'd pulled her old wooden pipe out of her breast pocket, slurring her words around it as she chewed on the stem. Coda looked at her in brief annoyance, not appreciating the uncouth behavior, but not really having the energy to start a fight over it.

"I mean, yeah. Maybe the stakes weren't exactly real, but everything else certainly was," she paused, blinking, then turned a confused glance on Aileen. "How'd you recover my body, anyway? I specifically said in my paperwork that I didn't want any—"

Huffing loudly in annoyance, Aileen cut her off. "Any cloning, replication, or doppelganger shit, yeah. I know, you were very thorough about it in your registration documentation. We just collected your remains through a teleporter, left a dummy set behind. After your pals had a moment with your real body, anyway. Thought for a hot minute your shark-y buddy might want his 'num nums,' but he left 'em intact."

Posture slumping as some of the tension leeched out of her frame, Coda turned her head to stare up at the ceiling.

"Are they..." she began, but didn't know quite what she was asking. Were they still alive? Were they doing well in the competition without her? Did they... miss her? Mourn her loss, just as much as she mourned them?

But Aileen wasn't even paying attention to her anymore. She was practically oblivious to Coda's presence now, her posture rigid and her head facing away, her eyes fixated upon the door.

Brows furrowing in confusion, Coda followed her gaze. After a moment of straining her ears to listen, it didn't take long to figure out just what was causing her friend's concern.

An unholy cacophony of screams and crashes bled through the door like a battlefield. Sounds of breaking glass and splintering wood echoed fiercely down the hallway, as if whatever was causing this chaos was slowly but steadily closing in...

Aileen sprung to her feet, her stance lightning-quick and fearsome. Teeth grinding down on her pipe with such force that her canines threatened to crunch through the wood, she lashed out with her arm and grabbed the nearest thing to use as a weapon— the glass pitcher, half-full of clear water.

Brandishing it, she stood between Coda and the door, staring it down. Her arms trembled with barely-suppressed rage; Aileen really didn't like it when her patients were disturbed, especially in what was supposed to be an isolated, employee-only medical wing.

The crashing and yelling continued for a moment longer, then suddenly ceased, only the faintest sound of something rolling across the floor ringing out. Echoed sobs came from a distance, lingering. Then, all of a sudden—

BAM!

The door to Coda's room erupted open, the doorknob smashing against the wall and ripping a gaping hole in the paper-thin drywall.

A beat later, Majima materialized in the doorway, a preternatural figure of fucking death. His lean, muscular frame was cloaked in darkness, the most clearly discernible feature being his single eye that seemed to cut through the depths of the room, his narrow eyebrows drawn high up on his forehead in manic delight. The horror of his entrance was only augmented by the snakeskin jacket that hung like a viper over his shoulders, made all the more sinister by the sickle-shaped grin slicing across his face.

Oh, and the baseball bat thrown over his shoulder. Couldn't forget that.

After a moment of his eye darting around in a frenzy (and looking Aileen up and down with a glance of not-so-subtle appreciation), his gaze eventually landed on Coda, laid up in her hospital bed and looking all pathetic. If at all possible, his grin stretched impossibly wider— almost ear to ear.

"Majima-san!" Coda exclaimed before he could even speak, the words nearly consumed by her gasp of delight. She was smiling so hard her cheeks hurt from the strain, the inside of her chest feeling like springtime— light, airy, and lush with so many feelings it was like a meadow filled to bursting with flowers in there. "What are you—?"

"Cooooda-chaaaan~!" Majima sing-songed, prancing into the room. His heels clicked together once, like he was in a Broadway musical or some shit; perhaps the most disturbing part of all. "We're here to bring some liveliness to this joint!"

"We?!" demanded Aileen through gritted teeth, at the same time that Coda's entire demeanor brightened even further, a hopeful "We?" leaving her lips.

Majima chuckled at Aileen's threatening stance and brandished water pitcher, his bat tapping rhythmically against his shoulder. A sly smirk crept onto his face as he glanced behind him at the open doorway. "Haw? What, ya think I'd come alone? Not a chance! Get in here, Kiryu-chan!"

Kiryu stepped in through the door behind him, his presence heralded by a calm yet intense aura. His eyes narrowed and his lips curled up into a slight smile as his hand rose in a courteous wave. In his other hand he held a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers, the colors of the petals bright and soft even under the harsh light of the sickbay.

And lastly, trailing just behind the others, the pouf of his afro standing proud and his white cape rippling dramatically behind him in a nonexistent wind...

"Mister Satan!" Coda whispered softly, her eyes shining from unshed grief, and that was it. It was over for her, like the fortified wall of a dam breaking under intense pressure, all the pain and sorrow she had been carrying melted away in an instant.

The young woman burst into tears, covering her face as she sobbed into her hands. Her limbs shook with the force of her cries, her body hunching forward to bury her face against the backs of her knees.

At the sound of her sudden wailing, Aileen spun around in shock, and in her haste nearly dropped the water pitcher. Rushing to Coda's side, she wondered what on earth could have happened to trigger such an outburst.

Mr. Satan crouched next to the tearful young lady's bed, his voice affectionate and comically gruff. "What's the matter, squirt? Why the watery eyes?" He gave her shoulder an encouraging pat, warm and comforting and so very alive. Just as Daiten had said! Only he wasn't in a bar, he was here, and he was—

Coda gave a little hiccup, and her eyes glistened with tears. She shook her head frantically and wiped at her face, resulting in a delightfully snot-streaked face. Mr. Satan, ever the gentleman, gently dabbed the mess away with a flourish of his luxurious cape.

"Y-you guys are s-so," she gasped through hitching breaths, eyes welling up with tears as she fought to speak. "So n-nice! I didn't think I'd see you again, and here you are! I'm just s-soooo happy!"

Another fresh wave of tears escaped her eyes, try as she might to fight it. Despite this, a beaming smile broke out upon Coda's face as she gazed around herself in wonder. Mr. Satan, Kiryu, and Majima too— all here, together, in her hospital room. She never thought she'd see this again— and certainly not like this, with Aileen there to see her act like a big goof.

With a sigh of contentment, Coda took the flowers from Kiryu's grasp and cradled them close to her chest, her gaze taking in her three newfound friends with warmth and joy. The softness of the petals tickled at her chin, silky and oh so sweet.

And in that moment, she felt a flicker of hope warm her heart, an inner strength swelling within her, and knew that she would heal.
 

Zayin

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Far out in the hinterlands of Erde Nona, a gruff old man grunted as he hefted himself out of his chair. Grumbling profanities under his breath, he lumbered over and gave the battery-powered TV before him a few good smacks, bringing the static-filled screen back into sharp relief.

“Piece ‘a junk,” he grumbled as he sat back down, warming his hands by the little campfire. “You could help for once, y’know.”

On the other side of his campfire, the man’s companion gave him a wolfish grin. The individual across from him bore an uncanny resemblance to the winged individual currently fighting for his life on the television. However, their braided hair was dirty blonde rather than raven-black, they possessed eight wings rather than six, and they wore an ornate set of armour rather than plain robes.

“Like I know a thing about televisions,” the angel cackled. Rather than sitting in a camping chair like the old man, she had her colossal greatspear impaled into the ground at a low angle and was perching on its handle like a bird. “Guess I could give it a good hit though, if you want.”

The old man mumbled a few more obscenities under his breath.

“Well if you can’t help the least you can do is stop stealing my cigarettes.”

“No can do,” the angel replied, raising the cheap tobacco to her lips and taking a deep puff. “Consider it atonement for a life of sins.”

“What do you even get out of it? Sword boy on the television said you lot don’t have lung.”

“‘Sword boy’ has said a lot of things. If that Coda girl didn’t interrupt him he’d have spilled the ballroom story on live TV,” the angel groaned, leaning back against her spear in exasperation. “But no, we don’t have lungs. It just makes me feel more human. It's an angel thing.”

The old man simply raised an eyebrow at this before turning back to the TV and wincing.

“Damn… that boy don’t look so good,” he grunted as he watched the Morgul blade’s vile corruption begin to overtake the swordsman. “You sure you want to watch this?”

“He’ll be fine. Zayin is a tough kid. I saw to that,” the angel grinned in spite of the display before the pair.

“And… if he isn’t?”

“Then I’ll split that Lilith bitch in half myself. No one hurts my angels and gets away with it.” she said matter-of-factly, taking another drag of the cigarette. The old man quietly regarded her, glancing at the razor-sharp blade of her greatspear and believing every word.

Silence fell over the clearing as they silently watched the screen, observing as the corrupted angel slowly began to break into song, returning in a blaze of glory while singing karaoke.

“Gahaha! He’s such a dork sometimes,” the angel cackled, resting her chin on one of her hands. “We love him for it, though.”

“You weren’t kiddin’,” the old man said, shaking his head. “Boy is tough. I’m not sure he’s gonna win, but he ain’t goin’ down easy.”

“He’ll win,” the angel remarked as if she were simply stating the weather. “On my name as Captain Netzach, seventh Sefira, Angel of Victory, my angels do not lose.”

The old man gave her a skeptical look and simply nodded appeasingly.

Sure, he’s the dork here.
 

Arthur Morgan

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“Ugh, I just wish there was something we could do to help them!” Coda lamented for the hundredth time. Well, perhaps it was the thousandth time. Either way, she’d made similar dramatic proclamations along those lines many times now, to the point that it had grown to be a bit tiresome, and didn’t seem any closer to stopping than she had the first time.

She and the three other cut-off members of the Thundersharks observed the events taking place on screen, their facial expressions ranging from sheer panic to slight consternation. In a moment of weakness (and after much piteous begging and pleading from Coda), Aileen had rolled a TV in for them to watch the finale— and actually rolled it in, for it was a seemingly ancient television set sitting atop a wheeled cart. Like the kind you might find in an early 2000s preschool classroom, a true relic of a bygone era.

It had a fine layer of dust covering it, the electronics inside emitting a high-pitched, struggling whine, almost as if the thing hadn't been switched on in freaking centuries. And hell, maybe it really hadn't!

“Ya can say that again,” Majima grumbled irritably. His gaze remained on the television, his mouth curled into a snarl. He rolled his eye as the fearsome lion man on screen spoke, puffing idly at the lit cigarette dangling from between his gloved fingertips.

Coda eyed the cigarette, her lips pursed in a frown. Her gaze darted to the side, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of her face as she stared at the bold-printed 'NO SMOKING' sign posted next to the door.

Aileen had left the med bay only a few moments ago, so she wasn't there to catch Majima in the act. If she did, though... Coda wasn't sure there'd be very many pieces of him left to collect. She'd try to intervene, of course, but her red-headed friend could be positively unhinged when she wanted to be. Honestly, she felt a little afraid for him.

Misinterpreting her stare, Majima raised an eyebrow, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. “What? Ya want one?” he asked, voice slurring around it, already bustling about for the box of smokes tucked inside his snakeskin jacket.

In a flash, a white-sleeved arm shot out and fiercely batted his hand aside, Majima-san's reflexes kicking in only a second too late.

The man let out a strangled squawk of indignation, flapping his stinging hand around as he hurled an accusatory glare at the man seated beside him. "Kiryu-chan! What didja go and do that for?!"

“She doesn't want that,” Kiryu chided him, shaking his head disapprovingly. He nodded to the sign posted beside the door. "Don't be a bad influence."

Majima met his stare head on, his eye widening in mock offense. “A bad influence? Me? And yer such a good influence, are ya?”

Kiryu glanced at Coda. In his arms rested a gigantic pink teddy bear, the words 'Get well soon!' stitched on the red heart it clutched within its fuzzy paws. It was even wearing a cute little cast on its arm! Coda had no idea where he’d managed to manifest that bear from mere moments after walking in, but she had to admit it was pretty freaking adorable.

He’d also been a real sweetheart and placed the flowers they’d brought inside the glass water pitcher next to her bed. The colorful blooms really did a lot to lighten up the dreariness of her hospital room, all things considered.

Turning his head, Kiryu pinned Majima with a flat stare. "Yes.”

Meanwhile, Mister Satan's eyes stayed riveted on the screen, one fist propped up under his chin and forehead creased as if deep in thought. His bushy eyebrows waggled about from time to time, his equally magnificent mustache dancing on his upper lip as his mouth twisted in concentration.

Seeing his look, Coda turned to him in interest, eager to avert the impending disagreement occurring on her opposite side. “Penny for your thoughts, Mister Satan?”

Mister Satan squinted, still staring at the TV. “Well, I was just thinking. Isn’t that friend of ours an angel? And angels thrive on prayer, don't they? What if we could... charge him up a little. Send him our energy?” His voice rose as he said it, his hands cupped in front of him as if to suggest a spark of power between them.

The other assorted Thundersharks exchanged a glance, then looked back at him.

“Ya really think that will work?” Majima scoffed, leaning back in his seat. "Sounds like a load of crap ta me."

He glanced over at Kiryu, clearly expecting agreement, only to find him staring off into the middle distance, as was his usual way. The expression on his face was like the surface of a gas station cup of coffee— bland and unremarkable —but something buried beneath it practically screamed 'What am I doing with my life?'

Finally, the man shrugged, nonchalant. "Sure, why not."

Majima gaped at him, arms dropping to his sides. Mister Satan cleared his throat pointedly. Grumbling under his breath, Majima tossed down his cigarette and stamped it out on the hospital linoleum, much to Coda's horror.

Mister Satan nodded to himself, satisfied. “Alright, it’s been a while, but…”

He motioned for them all to crouch over Coda’s hospital bed, looping their arms together in a daisy chain, heads bowed inward like they were in the Crossroads' craziest football huddle.

"Eternal power of Heaven," Mister Satan began, his booming voice resounding with fervent passion. "We invoke the angel Zayin and beseech thee to hone our prayer. Release the hidden potential within him and our shark-y friend to power levels beyond belief!"

The three other members of the Thundersharks looked on with rapt attention as he spoke, almost in wonder. Or maybe just disbelief. Either way, they all seemed pretty surprised by Satan’s vehement spiritual support of their friend— though perhaps they shouldn’t have been, considering.

"We humbly ask you to use us as your tools," he continued. "Wield us as weapons, your holy will be done... AMEN!"

A moment of silence descended upon the room, like they were all almost afraid to draw breath for fear of breaking the moment. Eventually, though, Coda straightened up and squinted at the flickering television, the violent images on screen reflecting in the lenses of her sunglasses.

"Well, I'm not too sure that did the trick..." she admitted, a dubious look on her face. “And what kind of prayer was that?

Mister Satan gave her a broad grin, brushing off the comment with ease. "Oh, that? I came up with that one on the fly. But just you wait. Even if it doesn't work— not saying it won’t —it was worth a shot!"

Nodding slowly, Coda settled back against her pillows, relaxing a little. If there was one thing she truly envied Mister Satan for, it was his absolute lack of any sort of uncertainty! It was almost as if he were immune to doubt, like some kind of superhuman. From his martial skill to his unshakable confidence, he really was the Champ!

The door to the room swung open with a grating squeal, Aileen tumbling back inside. She struggled to walk straight, her arms overladen with... snacks?

Indeed, the redhead had her arms chock-full with two large buckets of popcorn, all manner of box candies, fizzy drinks, and a six-pack of beer. Enough food to feed a small army, really. Or juuuuust enough to appease the overworked metabolisms of two muscled-up yakuza, a science experiment, and one martial arts master.

She shot Coda a crooked grin (deliberately ignoring everyone else), dumping everything at the foot of her hospital bed. "Can't have a watch party without snacks, now can we!"

Coda wasn't so sure if she'd classify watching her friends getting pummeled in subpar resolution as a 'watch party,' but whatever. She leaned forward to examine Aileen's haul, quickly snagging up a box of Red Hots.

For some reason, she'd developed a most peculiar hankering for spicy foods as of late…

team thundersharks 5ever ♡
 

Arthur Morgan

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Abruptly, Aileen stiffened. Her entire body went absolutely rigid, like a hound on the scent, as she craned her head to stare at them all.

She sniffed at the air. Once. Twice. Three times…

A dark shadow fell over her face. Her voice was achingly soft when she spoke next, though Coda could hear the slight hitching of her breath as Aileen clearly struggled against every fibre of her being to remain calm.

“Has someone been… smoking… in MY med bay?”

The smile dropping from her face, Coda’s eyes darted to Majima.

Majima’s eye dropped to the ashy remnants of his cigarette crushed into the blindingly white linoleum tile, the evidence still thinly smoking.

Silently, he shifted his steel-toed boot to cover it. He shot a warning glance at the rest of them, the message crystal clear: don’t you fuckin’ dare.
 
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