DGS3 -- Staging: Recreation Level

[The Man in Red]

A huge sprawling area, filled with all manner of things. Restaurants and bars serving all manner of food and cuisine from across the stars and worlds. Huge theaters, ranging from fabulously hi-tech marvels to quaint old models from a bygone era showing all manner of movies. Arcades and facilities for other games. If there's something you want and can't find it, it's probably in here somewhere -- ask one of the many masked attendants, and they'll be happy to help you!

 

[Sandor Clegane]

It was almost like space, or the deepest reaches of the ocean. In that way there was something comforting about the bar and the way it made Nanaue feel. In other ways it was more exciting or entrancing than it was comforting, like the way the lights danced across everything. They swung across the patrons, they did the promenade across the floors, they waltzed over the tables, and they stepped bachata around the booths.

One of those booths held the mismatched trio. Nanaue’s head roved, his heavy finger bobbed from one place to another, and his eyes reflected a veritable spectrum of colors. The lights swam around his black marble eyes like rainbow flakes in a dark snowglobe.

“Lights…” he said, dazed, gills flaring and falling slowly. “Lots of lights…”

“Nanaue, have you ever been to a place like this?” Coda’s tone was pleasant, conversational, but belied her authentic curiosity. “A karaoke bar, or even a regular bar? Or do they bar the doors?”

She snuck a glance and a subtle quirk of her lips at Zayin, but he hadn’t caught her pun either.

“Me born in place like this,” the sonorous response from Nanaue came from deep in his chest, a low and slow thing. “Ocean.”

He tore his gaze from the lights, looked at Coda, put his ham-hock hands together, then pulled them apart slowly. He pulled them further and further apart until the gap between them stretched his entire reach, then stared at her with a muted expression.

“The ocean is very big,” Nanaue explained, and was that tone patronizing? “Like this.”

Coda shot another gaze, this one incredulous, at Zayin as if to ask ‘are you seeing this?’ but he still hadn’t hadn’t resurfaced from his lapse in attention. Rather, he’d submerged himself more deeply into his distraction and his gaze was focused many yards away on a raised stage on the far end of the bar. Across the floor where the colorful lights tangoed eternal, past the booths and the tables where the barflies plumbed the depths of their bottles, and all the way out in the no man’s land of the platform stage stood two men upon whom the spotlight was trained. That is where Zayin had trained his attention. Coda followed his gaze, and Nanaue followed hers.

They were both on the younger end, but not young young - old enough to know better, but young enough not to care. One of them - an eccentric looking man with an eyepatch - held a short glass with a drink on the rocks that looked brown and syrupy in one hand and a tall glass full of pink liquid scalloped with an umbrella in the other. He was shoving the tall glass at the second man aggressively who kept shoving it back with a placid expression, looking almost imperceptibly uncomfortable. Almost.

“I don’t want a drink right now,” the second man insisted, pushing the first man’s hand back towards him. “We’re supposed to be starting.”

“Kiryu-chan!” the second man trilled, lilting, before dropping his voice an octave. “This shit will bring out your potential. You need this! If you don’t do this, the whole thing falls apart, and everyone here will think you’re soft!”

Kiryu remained a blank slate and took the tall glass. He held it up, squinted at it against the light, then brought it to his lips and took a sip. His expression didn’t change once, and he locked eyes with his cycloptic friend.

“It’s too sweet,” he said, monotone. “Majima-san. This isn’t my type of drink.”

Majima’s hands shot out lightning quick, seized Kiryu by his grey blazer lapels, and drew the man in so close that they were nose to nose.

“Me think they kiss,” whispered Nanaue without looking away.

“Kiryu-chan!” like an owner might coo at their pet. “This is gonna be sweet.”

Majima let go of Kiryu, practically pirouetted to the microphone, plucked it from its clutch, then brought it to his lips. The lights dimmed quickly, and a hush fell over the bar. With the spotlight illuminating the entire spectacle, a plucky guitar started picking out quick, cheerful notes over the karaoke speakers, and Majima began.

“All I wanna do is have a little fun before I die, said the man next to me out of nowhe - SHIT! IS THAT A FUCKING SHARK!?”

Majima dropped the mic, leapt back, finger stabbed the air dramatically, and seized his well dressed friend by the shoulder. He shook Kiryu frantically. He clenched his jaw. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and continued pointing.

“That is a shark,” confirmed Kiryu, stone-faced.

Kiryu stepped forward, action ready, as if he’d served time on a whaling vessel out on the vast oceans of Opealon (he hadn’t), and trained his serious gaze on the mismatched grouping of Zayin, Coda, and Nanaue.

A murmur had begun to buzz about the bar, and it swelled to a crescendo when the layman populace followed Kiryu’s gaze to the booth that held the shark monstrosity. Nanaue looked around, but if he gauged the situation to be serious he certainly didn’t show that on his face.

Coda, on the other hand, wore a look of appropriate concern. She took the opportunity to cup her hands around her mouth and shout out to the duo up on the stage, lest the situation escalate.

“He’s harmless, trust me! He’s all bark and no bite!” she shouted.

“That’s probably not true,” Zayin mumbled into her ear.

She paused, considering.

“...well, he might be some bite! Or a lot of bite! …okay, he’s mostly bite! But I don’t think he’s mean!”

Nanaue, who was never averse or even aware of escalation, slid out of the booth and stood up fully; it was an action that did, in fact, escalate and in an instant the bar went from green to yellow to defcon five. The customers whipped up into a frenzy while Sheryl Crow crooned about how all she wanted to do was have some fun to the tune of a twangy guitar - until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard.

A woman ran right by the Shark King, shrieking with her hands in the air like a buffoon, and he watched her go with fascination before twisting his upper torso around to look at Coda and Zayin. She’d activated his trap card: the predatory instinct that flares up in any carnivore that sees something dash away like it needs it to be chased.

“Num nums?” he asked, pointing after the woman.

 

[Zayin]

Zayin glanced at his human companion, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

“What does ‘num nums’ mean?” He asked, unsure if he would even get an answer or if the simple-minded shark was simply speaking gibberish.

“No, Nanaue!” Coda gasped, turning a bit pale before glancing at the hero. “Well, it’s like baby talk that means ‘food’.”

Aghast, the angel turned back to King Shark, the hybrid’s eyes still locked on the fleeing woman.

“Nanaue, look at me.” Zayin said firmly, his mind racing. His stomach was turning in knots at the sharkman’s reaction. The swordsman had no idea if he had eaten people before, and if he had, how many. But he could at least try to stop this. In response, Nanaue reluctantly turned to look at his new companion, his blank, black eyes meeting the radiant glow of the angel’s.

“Huh?” King Shark murmured, a little (or a lot) confused at the reaction. Taking a deep breath, the living weapon dug deep into the depths of his soul, wondering exactly how much he could appeal to the not-quite-human shark.

“Nanaue, you are a proud and mighty mortal soul. You are more than your instincts. You have the ability to choose, to do good or to do evil. It is the privilege, the right, and the responsibility for every mortal to exercise this choice, and I have faith that you can make this choice to only bear your teeth against those who deserve it.” Zayin proclaimed to Nanaue, who simply gave him a blank, slack-jawed stare, as if his brain had shut off while attempting to register the speech. The angel sighed. “And we can get you some food- egh, ‘num nums’, in a bit.”

Nanaue seemed satisfied with this, relaxing into his seat rather than chasing after the woman who had long-since fled. Coda exchanged a glance with her companions as he settled back into his seat as well. King Shark was certainly a handful, but better that he be a bit of a concern to them than a life-ending threat to someone else. As the situation defused, Zayin noticed a clapping sound coming from the stage. The ragtag grouped looked over, noticing the eyepatched individual walking over towards them, clapping his hands with an emotional look on his face.

“If that isn’t the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.” He wept sarcastically, shaking his head. Behind him, his stone-faced companion betrayed little emotion, standing stoically next to the still-playing karaoke machine. “But your shark buddy there interrupted my set. Whaddya gonna do to make it up for me, miss…? ter…?”

“It's mister. And don’t bother with such formalities, just call me Zayin.” The angel sighed.

“And I’m Coda.” His companion piped up, waving at the pair of yakuza. “And this is Nanaue.”

“Pirate!” King Shark said excitedly as he pointed at the man’s eyepatch.

“Pirate?!” He croaked in response, turning back to his friend. “Do I really look like a pirate Kiryu-chan?! At least tell me I look like one of those handsome Hollywood movie pirates!”

“You don’t look like a pirate, Majima-san.” Kiryu replied flatly. “You would need a hook hand or a peg-leg for that look.”

“So, first your buddy interrupts me, then he gets me all self-conscious about my outfit.” Majima snipped, stepping closer to their table. In response, Zayin got to his feet and started walking to meet him. Internally, he rationalized it as wanting to keep the others out of trouble, but deep down his challenger’s instincts were firing on all cylinders. As they met halfway, the yakuza jabbed a finger into the angel’s chest. At the provoking gesture, Nanaue began to rise from his seat as well before being stopped by Coda who was watching curiously. “So, I think you’re going to need to- wait are those real?”

“I- Huh?” The hero sputtered, dumbfounded by the attention span of the man before him. Following the mad dog’s one-eyed gaze, he quickly realized that the objects of his curiosity were his wings. With a slight sense of indignance. “Yes, of course they’re real.”

“No shit…” Majima said, looking Zayin up and down with fresh eyes. “Wait, So you’re a real-ass angel? Can you tell if I’ll be going to Hell?”

“What…?” The living weapon muttered to himself, glancing back at his companions, only receiving a shrug from Coda. “I- Ok, I can't tell how virtuous someone is, but there’s actually no such thing, so-“

Before he could even finish his sentence, Majima’s jaw dropped and his eye opened wide as he abruptly threw himself into an impromptu breakdance routine, sliding across the floor and spinning like a top while whooping excitedly. Hopping to his feet and sliding to a stop with a stylish pose, the yakuza pointed at Zayin with both hands, a wide grin on his face. Kiryu, on the other hand, had a conflicted expression on his face as he realized that while he wouldn’t be facing eternal punishment, what little worry that still held back his unhinged friend had vanished. “That’s the best fucking thing I’ve heard all week! I owe you one, man.”

“Don’t mention it.” Zayin murmured, wondering if he had just made a dire mistake.

“Look, I was gonna beat the shit out of you before, but you got me in a good mood.” Majima grinned. “Let’s settle this score in another way.”

“What would you propose?”

“Karaoke!” Majima declared, gesturing towards the now silent machine with both hands. “I get the feeling that you’re not from around here, so between you and me, real men- and woman- settle their differences with a karaoke contest.”

“I’m not really sure what that is.” The angel said, glancing back to Coda who he presumed was better acquainted with such a machine. “Maybe she should-“

“No no no!” The mad dog snapped. “She can go next round if she likes, but this one is between me and you.”

“If you insist.” The living weapon shrugged before allowing Majima to lead him over to the karaoke machine. It was unfamiliar at first, but with a bit of explanation from the two yakuza, he was able to grasp the concept. Browsing the song list, Zayin had little reference for each one before landing on one called ‘judgement’.

“That’s a good song.” Kiryu affirmed, and the angel thought it seemed rather thematic, but before he could select it his karaoke opponent(?) chased him off of the song selection before picking his own.

“Sorry, but we’re doing this one!” Majima grinned. “This one is my favorite song!”

“Well that seems a little unfair, doesn’t it?” The living weapon muttered.

“Just because we’re not fighting physically doesn’t mean I’m going to show any mercy!” The yakuza cackled as bubbly, upbeat music started to play over the karaoke machine. “Sunao niI LOVE YOU!”

Caught off guard, Zayin hesitated for half a moment before raising his own microphone, a grin on his face and the light in his eyes flaring. While it may not have been the kind of battle he was used to, as the angel of challenge, he wasn’t about to let anyone beat him without a fight. “Todokeyou kitto YOU LOVE ME!”

Coda howled with laughter at the display before her, flopping back into her booth and wiping a tear from her eyes. Even Nanaue couldn’t help but find humour at the sight and sound, chuckling along. “Yeeeeah, ahahaha! Gooo Zayin!”

“Futari de STEP & GO!” Majima sang, leaning in to his duet partner in a way that was both playful and slightly threatening before beginning to incorporate dance moves into the mix, sliding around the stage as if he were some sort of figure skater. While his ‘opponent’ was stumbling over his words a little, particularly with the unfamiliar language, but was keeping pace decently well for a beginner. It certainly helped that his voice was, appropriately, rather angelic, and the vocals of the two singers blended disturbingly well as they got into the swing of things.

“Sunao ni I LOVE YOU!” They sang in sync, locking eye(s) and dancing around one another, both singers grinning.

“Todokeyou kitto YOU LOVE ME!” Zayin clutched his microphone tight, his wings flaring out excitedly as the song approached its climax.

“Futari de STEP & GO!” The two singers parted, moving to opposite sides of the stage before sliding back together as they neared the end of the song.

“Nijuuyo-jikan Shindereraaaaaaa!” The yakuza and the angel sang, putting all of their soul into their performance. “Hey! Hey! Hey!”

The pair struck a final pose as the song ended, both of their free arms held high in the air as they each took a knee. The crowd, having settled down after the panic of Nanaue revealing himself, broke into a confused but genuine applause, bringing a grin to the faces of the panting, sweaty singers. It was a good feeling, marred only slightly by the sound of Coda’s persistent giggles.

 

[Arthur Morgan]

Still fighting valiantly to stifle her laughter, Coda swiped a tear from her eye with the pad of her thumb, pausing just long enough to join the audience in applauding the two performers. It was only when she looked up that she saw Zayin standing before her, holding the microphone out to her like she was his squire about to take his place in a duel.

The smile dropped from Coda's face, all color vanishing from her already deathly pale complexion in a flash. "Oh, no no no, I couldn't possibly!" She turned to the Shark King, expression desperate. "Nanaue, you tell him!"

Nanaue emitted a low, resonant hum deep inside his chest, his thick head twisting to glance between his companions. "Me think friend good singer."

Coda balked at him, aghast. Betrayer!

"You haven't even heard me sing!" she yelped. "I mean, I can dance and all, but singing?"

Directing a frantic look over Zayin's shoulder, Coda could see that Kiryu was already working on selecting a song. The other man, Majima, stood beside him, hovering and fretting, evidently berating him for his choice in music.

"No! Not that one, Kiryu-chan! This one!"

The other man glanced at him, even his seemingly placid expression turned overwhelmingly intimidating by the severe knife's edge of his cheekbones. "This song?"

"YES! That's the one!" Majima exclaimed, clapping his hands together with a loud chortle. "This is the perfect song for a karaoke battle! It'll be sure to send this entire bar dancing into the streets!"

Kiryu looked back at the song selection. "No, Majima-san. I don't think so. That one won't get them going."

He scrolled to a different song.

Majima emitted a nearly inhuman sound of frustration. "Time is running short! You don't want that little lady to think you're scared of her, do you?!"

Meanwhile, said little lady was attempting to melt into the floorboards. "I can't do it, you guys. I just can't!"

But Zayin only shook his head at her, tsk-ing lightly. "Coda, countless monsters have been slain by my hands for the benefit of humankind, yet this battle I cannot fight for you. You must forge a resolute heart and a steel will. Do not cower in fear, but raise your chin in challenge! Clench your fists and show them what you're made of!"

Her eyes still trained on where the white-suited yakuza was picking his song (and it was taking him a REALLY long time, for some reason), Coda gulped, sinking further down into her seat. She shook her head frantically at Zayin's impassioned encouragement. Her time was running short!

All of a sudden she felt a heavy, slightly damp weight land upon her shoulder. Jolting slightly, Coda looked up and into King Shark's massive, toothy face.

"Friend scared?" he asked, in that deep, bowling-ball-rolling-around-inside-a-barrel drum voice of his.

Coda blinked at him, unsure of how to respond. To admit to her fears would be showing weakness, and displaying any sort of failing was something she simply could not bear. It was practically ingrained into her very DNA— and perhaps it actually was!

But she couldn't very well lie to this... this oddly endearing shark man and his big, dopey eyes! Even though they appeared utterly soulless and flat upon first glance, they were actually... very kind eyes, and they begged her to confess the truth.

Sighing softly and hanging her head, Coda gave a resigned nod. Yes, it was true. She was afraid.

Nanaue hummed, as if experiencing a moment of profound contemplation. Then, in a move that shook the table they were seated beside, the shark man rose to his feet.

Coda glanced up from where she'd been staring at her shoes, mouth just slightly agape. "Nanaue, where are you going?"

The shark man held a hand out to her, palm— as wide as Coda's head, he could easily crush her skull like a grape if he had a mind to do it —facing up.

"Go sing together," said he. He paused, nostrils flaring, and bobbled his head at her in a gesture that seemed almost like a... reassuring nod? "Eat pirate me."

Blanching, Coda frantically waved her hands at him. "Oh, no, it's not that— I-I'm not scared of the... the pirate guy! You don't gotta eat him!"

King Shark seemed to deflate slightly. "No num nums?"

Zayin stepped in. "We'll get num nums after, remember? Singing now, eat after."

"Though I really appreciate the offer, Nanaue," Coda stammered with great sincerity. It wasn't every day that someone offered to literally devour your enemies for you, after all. Sucking in a deep breath, she got to her feet, as well. "But if you're willing to get up on that stage and take the plunge with me... well, I suppose I could do it."

Suddenly, the opening notes to an atrociously cheesy love song blared from the karaoke machine. All eyes locked onto Kiryu, who had finally made his selection after a lengthy perusal of the karaoke machine’s entire catalogue.

"Wait, I know this song!" hissed Coda under her breath, sliding out of her seat and grabbing King Shark's arm, her grip so hard it left slight impressions on even his thick hide. She proceeded to haul him toward the karaoke machine, snatching the microphone from Zayin's grip as she passed him. "Give me that!"

Just as they came within range, Kiryu cleared his throat and adjusted his shirt collar with a short, perfunctory movement. He threw a glance their way, bringing his own microphone to his lips.

"I sing for you."

They had a few more seconds to reach the stage. Heart beating in time with the slowing, sorrowful music, Coda sprinted the last few steps, Nanaue plodding along shortly behind.

"Baka mitai," Kiryu began, in a startlingly incredible voice that soared through the room like a gentle breeze. "Kodomo na no ne—"

Coda stepped up beside Kiryu, panting slightly, and hastily brought her own microphone to her lips. Her heart thundered inside her chest, feeling like it was trying to send her into cardiac arrest.

"Y-yume o, otte kizutsuite..." she chorused with him, darting a glance his way.

Seeming to be a thousand miles away, the yakuza hardly seemed to notice her or her sharky companion, his body swaying in time with the music. "Uso ga, heta na kuse ni."

"Waraenai, egao, miseta," Coda sang sweetly, quickly finding her voice. A tender smile began to quirk at the corners of her lips. This wasn’t so bad!

The song suddenly intensified, sending a wave of emotion throughout the bar. The two humans sang in unison, their voices rising above the crescendo of the music, "I love you! Mo roku ni iwanai..."

Energy rising, the atmosphere stirred with a captivating intensity, the two slowly pacing in different directions as they sang. "Kuchi beta de, honma ni bukiyou!"

Kiryu paused on the far side of the stage, lifting one arm into the air, grasping at empty space, as if searching for an invisible embrace. As gentle notes filled the air, his voice lilted, the microphone tilting toward his lips. "Na no ni, na no ni doushite..."

Drawing to a halt at the opposite end of the stage, Coda pressed one hand over her heart, her chest rising with impassioned breathlessness. "Sayonara... wa ieta no....."

King Shark remained standing at the center of the stage, his arms hanging limply at his sides. His head turned to look at Coda, then swiveled completely around to look at Kiryu, the oscillating disco lights shining across the stage glittering in his eyes.

Suddenly, the pair began to sing together once more, each bent double, expressions twisted with profound despair. Each verse was a wave of passion that washed over the room, a quiet yearning! "Dame da ne! Dame yo! Dame na no yo..."

Coda threw a glance over at her duet partner, matching his energy as they sang in perfect unison, their voices entwining in a near angelic harmony: "Anta ga, suki de, suki sugiteee!"

"Dore dake! Tsuyoi osake demo—" As one, the two singers began to sweep back to the center of the stage like two great waves crashing together, coming to stand on either side of King Shark.

"Yugamanai," crooned Kiryu, a passionate whisper of longing that filled the air.

"Omoide ga..." Coda echoed, her lighter voice nearly lost in the melody, sweat shining upon her brow under the dancing lights.

Bending his head to the microphone, Kiryu whispered the final verse in a soft, lingering tone that seemed to cradle every syllable:

"Baka mitai."

Both singers fell silent, the melodious strain of their voices fading away, liquefying as it melded with the solemn, smoky haze of the karaoke den. Those who had been sitting still in rapt attention now burst into hearty cheers and applause, the music lifting its last few notes to rejoice along with the crowd, almost as if the song itself was reluctant to let the moment draw to a close.

On the stage, each of the three figures stood in mutual contemplation of what they had just shared. Two humans and one shark, connected by the power of music... who knew?

 

[John Connor]

If I had a title for my day today, it would be "Shark-Men and Singing Yazura, oh my!" in case you were wondering what that was.

After spending hours "Pushing the bench" or Benchpressing, according to the weird guy named Flak, which I had no idea what he was talking about maybe half the time. I swore i missed the man in the distance who called him Trevor.

I stood pressing the weird buttons on the "Light-up screen" somehow called a "Computer" but it still looks like a light- up box. This "technology" still confuses me but at least I got to stare at information about various competitors in the "Death game" I signed up for.

I carefully studied the details and mannerisms of certain individuals as I had little information about them prior and wanted to get a leg up on my opponents. Eventually, I had to eat something, anything. Back to the opening and closing "doors" with carved symbols.

This time when I entered said elevator, I pressed Rec room. Little did I know, what music was coming from this place was coming from a tiny little box with two strange men singing with some sort of loud device.

It was harder to ignore than usual as I passed by, searching for something to eat on the endless floor of entertainment. I walked passed scores of restaurants calling themselves "La taco, authentic Mexican, and peered into the greasy fast food stands they called "Fast food" these days. Nothing looked appealing as I passed as looked up "Chinese, Authentic.. Looked like fried nuggets."

I sat with my meal with the guy up front who swore this was convincing Authentic "Italian" Food, which somehow I thought was sort of offensive somehow.

I poked at the red sauce and wiggly noodles on the plate along with the strange pizza shape.

Instead, I opted for just drinking "wine" on an empty stomach. I looked up and raised an eyebrow, placing the armored helmet on my head, silently observing what looked like a walking shark and two foreign men singing.

I watched them silently, just observing for a second, and frowned, going back to eat some of the weird new foods I found from a distance.

 

[Sandor Clegane]

“Mahna, mahna…”

Doo doo do doo doo!

“Mahna, mahna.”

Do doo doo do!

“Mahna, mahna.”

Do doooo do doo do, do doo do, do doot doot doodoodoot!

Coda and Zayin, back in the booth, watched Nanaue rock gently from side to side up on stage and grumble into the microphone with the bassy splendor of a phenomenally old geezer waking up from a nap in front of the ol’ boob tube. The crowd had settled into a sort of restless lull when Coda and Kiryu departed the stage. Most concert musicians, when they’d nailed down the fine art of manipulating a crowd, learned that it was necessary to give the spectators a period of rest after a lengthy stretch of absolute hype. Zayin, Majima, Coda, and Kiryu were not professional musicians, but they’d followed the same tenant rules. Some folks were natural showmen.

“That was nuts,” Coda stated, breathless, sinking back into the safe anonymity of her red booth seat.

“Actually, it was karaoke,” Zayin informed her, deadpan.

He looked right into her eyes.

“Are you…are you making a joke?” demanded Coda, sitting up a bit and smirking. “You are, aren’t you!?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Zayin shifted in his seat and turned his face away to watch Nanaue’s performance more closely, but not before Coda caught the corner of his mouth twitching. She smirked to herself, leaned forward, planted her elbows on the table, and gave herself the chance to drink in the moment. It was easy enough to forget about the next phase when things were good, and weren’t things good now? Even Nanaue looked like things were good now - his song had ended, but he clutched the microphone in a hand so large that the head of the thing barely poked out the top while one of the wait-staff was trying fruitlessly to explain to him the nuance of karaoke etiquette.

Yeah, things were good.

“Do you think he actually is harmless?” Zayin asked, ending the moment of peace.

Coda paused and thought.

“I’m not sure,” she answered honestly, watching Nanaue tug-of-war the microphone with the poor young woman who’d had the misfortune of drawing the short straw. “I don’t think he’s harmless, but I don’t think he’s evil either, is he? I mean, look at him.”

Nanaue let go of the microphone in a huff, and the woman went tumbling back on her ass in surprise. She was quick to capitalize on her good luck and used the chance to scramble off the stage. The King of Sharks stood there with his thick arms folder over each other, seething. After a period of pouting he threw both arms up, yelled a rather uncouth curse after the woman, and stomped off the stage.

“Maybe not,” Zayin admitted. “I don’t think I want to run into him out on the island, though.”

Nanaue crossed the open floor while parting a sea of spectators the way a prophet might part an otherwise impassable sea. Coda and Zayin fell silent when he drew close, but King Shark wasn’t adept enough at reading social cues notice they’d been talking about him. Even if he had boasted that sort of skill set, his preoccupation with having the microphone taken away dominated his reality which showed when he slid into the spot next to Coda muttering like a child who’d been scolded in the schoolyard.

“Huckin’-fuckin’-”

“Nanaue, you’ve got quite a mouth on you,” Coda observed, stealing another look at Zayin to see if he had caught what she’d done there.

If he had, he refused to acknowledge it. Maybe he didn’t want to encourage the puns, or was reluctant to admit that he liked them. Pun-play wasn’t exactly angelic stuff.

The comment brought Nanaue around, whose maw yawned open the way one might open wide for their dentist. A smell of fish and death trickled out of the back of his throat, wafted over the table, and prompted an involuntary shift in both Coda and Zayin. They both slid back a scootch, greener than they had been, and fumbled around for an appropriate way to handle the situation.

“That’s…really impressive,” Zayin affirmed, his voice half-nasal with the effort it took not to inhale. “We’ve gotten a really good look, Nanaue.”

The massive snap-trap closed as much as it ever did while the King of Sharks looked pleased with himself. The surliness had slipped away from him to give way to a quiet stupor and he looked around at the people revolving around the open floor. He fish-eyed them hungrily, shifted in his seat, drooled a bit out of the corner of his mouth, and leaned forward until it seemed like he might come right over the table. He did not notice his companions staring at him, which was not a comfort to them.

“Maybe we ought to get you something to eat,” Coda said to Nanaue, the way a parent might tell their toddler the same when they were mostly speaking to themselves but thought they should say something out loud anyway.

He didn’t respond.

“I think it’s getting more dire,” Zayin whispered to Coda, frowning.

Coda actually stood up in her seat and frantically waved down one of the staff. Luckily it wasn’t the same girl who’d drawn Nanaue’s ire earlier but it was a similarly mousy young woman who didn’t look any more excited than her coworker at the prospect of approaching the King Shark Booth. Nevertheless, a job is a job, and the customer is always right; she approached reluctantly but tried to wear her best customer service face - the one that masked a dead inside demeanor with a grotesque caricature of polite interest that even a blind man could see through.

Having made a thorough spectacle of herself, Coda sat back down. They’d been a spectacle all along, though, so why stop there?

“I think our friend needs something to eat,” Zayin stated their case hastily, his tone urgent. “Fast.”

Nanaue nodded his assent, still drooling.

“Uh…what does your friend eat?” squeaked the young woman.

She pulled a stenopad out with a shaky hand, actually dropped her pen, stooped down to pick it up, whacked her head on the table on her way back up, cursed, apologized, then trembled in place while she waited for the order.

“Num nums,” answered Nanaue, pointing at his mouth.

The poor waitress searched Zayin and Coda’s faces imploring…no, begging them for help.

“You heard the…man? Shark. Shark-man,” Coda told her. “He needs his num nums.”

The waitress opened her mouth as if to say something but seemed to think better of it. Instead she scurried away without even writing the order down; she pushed her way through the big, gray double doors that led to the kitchen faster than she ever had in her life while Coda watched her with a genuine curiosity about what she’d bring back.

“Once Nanaue has his num nums, maybe we should head out,” Zayin offered, noticing the scornful gaze of the crowd. “I think we’ve drawn a lot of attention to ourselves here. Too much attention.”

Coda couldn’t disagree, so she nodded, but she was lost in thought. Even though it was impolite to stare she'd decided that Nanaue probably didn’t mind, and she was focused on his black eyes. They were kind eyes, weren’t they? At first they’d looked dead, even evil, the kind of ugly evil that kept a girl awake at night, but when you’d gotten used to them, there was something else hiding back there. Something child-like, and wonderful.

“Friends,” Nanaue said, after a lapse of silence.

Another silence fell, and Coda answered back: “Yeah. Friends.”

 

[Zayin]

Casting a nervous glance at Nanaue as he downed his ‘num nums’, Zayin cleared his throat before turning back to face Coda. “Is there somewhere a bit less… populated we can bring him? Somewhere we can keep him out of trouble.”

The Carnivale employee didn’t answer immediately, her gaze firmly fixed on King Shark’s meal. It seemed as if the kitchen had cleared out their seafood reserves for the order, piling a platter high with fish, squid, shrimps, clams, and all other manner of aquatic cuisine. The Sharkman seemed perfectly content with this decision, and if he wasn’t he made no attempt to voice this complaint, shoveling the food into his mouth handfuls at a time.

“Huh?” She asked, snapping out of her trace and looking over to the angel. “Oh, right… well, I guess we could try to bring him to the preparation area.”

“Preparation? For the contest?” Zayin inquired, taking his chin in one of his hands as he considered the idea.

“Yeah. Lots of training equipment and stuff. Won’t be a tonne of people there compared to here.” Coda nodded before leaning in close, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Plus, it’ll be mostly competitors. If worst comes to worst, he probably won’t be able to kill anyone before security nabs them.”

The hero mulled the proposition over for a few moments, weighing the pros and cons. While he didn’t love the chance of a full on battle to the death breaking out, however low that chance may be, it was preferable to the possibility of a poor employee being mauled. As he pondered, Zayin attempted to meet Coda’s eye. Though his attempt was, as always, foiled by her shades, he could tell she was having similar thoughts.

Taking a deep sigh, the living weapon sat patiently until Nanaue finished his meal, pushing the whole plate into his mouth and swallowing before giving a big grin to his friends. The hero hoped that the staff weren’t going to mention it, though he didn’t think the odds of them bringing it up were high.

“Alright Nanaue, are you ready to move on?” Zayin asked the sharkman. King Shark considered the question for a moment, rubbing his belly and judging how satisfied he was. After some consideration, he nodded and rose from his seat. The human and the angel followed suit before heading towards the elevator.

As they did, Zayin couldn’t help but glance back at Nanaue every so often. Thankfully, he did seem sated for the moment, refraining from giving any hungry looks at passersby, though who could say how long that would last? The presence of King Shark was a confounding one for the angel and it was weighing on him heavily. He wasn’t evil, but he was dangerous. Could he be taught right from wrong? The hero certainly wanted to believe so.

“Hey, Zayin.” Coda prodded. “You forget how to use the elevators again?”

“Huh?” The angel replied, snapping out of his trance. Looking around, he realized that he was standing in front of the metal doors once more. “Oh… no, I’m fine.”

Shaking his head, the swordsman pressed the button to summon the ‘elevator’. Whatever happened in the future, he’d just have to deal with things as they came.

 

[Eddie the Head]

Sing-songy, jubilant tone that sounded fresh out of a celebratory pub Eddie’s enunciation was even a bit slurred due to what could be considered... ample disorganization. Somehow, in a vibration beyond singing he’d hit the notes just right to pull on the right heartstrings of joy through despair. Usually coming from a place of evil, mismatched poetry, or moments pulled from a blended Multiverse, he arrived here, to this chorus returning his mind to a portion of human life.

The power of music imbued him with the ultimate spell of allure. That innate charisma carried the attention of all those flowing around him. An energy like no other, cast the spotlight on him.

“Oh the flesh of man shall be my prize!!!
And the devourer shall be my mise!
OH yee shall relishhhh in my disguiiiiiiise!!!”

Rockstar Eddie existed without particular malice emanating from him as he sang with varying tones of exasperation before interjecting to himself and placing a flattened hand alongside his mouth as though he were adding in a secret to a fellow chap, and adding a friendly wink to his hushed voice. “Believe me, it sounds better with a bassist. And every song always needs a solo but that’ll be later, you’ll see.”

“Prithee, continue!” He commanded himself and relished as he flaunted an ecstatic air-guitar riff.

He laughed boisterously as the stringless-solo ended then abruptly caught himself in a boisterous coughing fit. As though a hair caught in his throat and threatened to twist into a noose. “Ahem.” His posture turned rigid and as though he were receiving a signal from another universe, he lifted his clenched hand over his ear as though taking a call.

“No, no, no. The "prince of death" and "death incarnate" are two completely different things!” Rockstar Eddie now personified a diva as though on an imaginary phone with his publicist. “Why should I explain? The answer should be obvious!”

The madhatter paused mid-step as though waiting for a response, “No, because one is stupid, and the other one simply sounds more mmmmmetal!” He exclaimed, though he glanced down at his outfit and sighed, his hand still gripping the space curling around his ear.

“And while you’re at it, tell him this is not the suit I ordered. They must’ve delivered the wrong one. I need something with prestige… Something to really capture the eminence of my visage for the grand show.” He cast his free hand across as though painting the ultimate picture in his mind. “Y’know? Something that really pops on stage. Don’t you know how it feels to have access to the perfect suit and wear it for the perfect party? Well, I want it. And I want it done right.”

“Uh, I don’t care if it’s this one little thing, it’s one little stupid thing. My name won’t go on it if I can’t be actually scary, the music’s not for kids! Well, call my agent. WELL, IT’S MY FACE ON THE COVER! I won’t be known for the prince of death. I want to be the king of death. To rule it. Conquer it. To be its tyrant. To make it mine. No, I won’t write that down. Listen. You want the band to break up? No more sales, no more you. Do the math yet? I should not have to tell my own publicist about image you complete and utter twat! Ta, ta.” There was an imaginary click of a receiving phone that wasn’t there.

The Englishman’s twang hissed and then shook his head with a scoffing tsk, “Amateurs.”

 

[Eddie the Head]

Stew, the closest barkeep and a bit of an oaf, having just been reprimanded by his superior for not meeting their sales quota promised to bait and sell whoever walked by next. No matter what they looked like. See, he'd made too many excuses for those who passed by before. One looked too young, one looked busy, the next looked far too Sharky for him to muster up the courage without the liquid-courage he was required to tend and serve.

"Uh, you sir, are you thirsty?" His voice hurtled out the offer before he could see the literal demon that the form belonged to. The bartender gulped while his eyes bulged out of his body in shock and he felt himself waver as the creature actually heard him and hobbled over with mismatched steps.

"You would offer… Me a drink?” A hiss responded while Eddie's luminous pupils pulled the bartender's soul to him like gravity. There was careful consideration in the demon's voice.

It was his job. Stew the barkeep offered some obligated nodding while he felt sweat brewing above his brow.

Without hesitation, Rockstar Eddie offered his response. It seemed this rendition of showman Eddie was a bit of a poet, cultured with fine words as well as the aesthetics of man’s ego for he responded to the actor's call to spin words and emotions together as one:

“Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.”

A pause of breath before Eddie continued with a tone switch; resulting in the showman's scene-cut. His performance... Only ever half-over. After all, the world's a stage.

“Do you know who said that?” Eddie asked with a morose twinkle in his vapid eyes. The only hint of sorrow ever to be detected in all his fine years.

“N-no.” Stew hesitated, it didn't sound like anything he'd heard in his section of the multiverse. His mind formed a hopefully suitable response, not wanting to look as though he was bad at his job in front of the rockstar… Or afraid for his life due to the demon within. “Was it you?”

"No!" the temperamental creature growled with hostility, assuming it was Stew's intention to feed Eddie's ego with flattery's putrid essence. "Then it might as well have been William Fuckin’ Shakespeare, you uncultured fuckin’ swine! I might as well be him! Do I look like the Oracle of Delphi to you?” Eddie rolled his rhetorical eyes, as he offered the unwanted commentary. Eddie continued the monologue as he brought down the side of his fist upon the wooden bar as though it were a gavel anointing justice. “You would offer me this mortal sin, before my big night? Are you trying to ruin the show? You…. You are the culmination of the wretchedness of man… Doth thy not know of the saying of drink, ending in: the bottle takes the man?” A haggard grin passed the challenge to the masked barkeep.

The barkeep named Stew blinked, unsure of anything and everything happening except that this creature across from him was a bit… Unhinged. Course, you had to be to join in a death game. Or perhaps this customer had already had far too much to drink. Still, it was his fault since he'd called the man over. He took the smallest amount of sanctuary that there was a layer of wood standing between them. Stew's shaking hands brushed through a towel to clean the smudge off a crystalline glass hoping to distract his mind as he forced himself to respond. Thecustomer'salwaysright,thecustomer'salwaysright... “N-no sir is that part of a drinking game?”

“WRONG ANSWER! You dare utter these words upon your lips, filth?” Eddie shouted, both of his hands on the barshelf and pressing himself up dramatically against his own gravity, then muttering to himself and uncouthly shrugging, “Of course, what do I care, I’m not even a man anymore… Ha, and I guess I’m quite the sinner too…” He shook his head, having quite a knack for talking aloud to himself.

"So, does that mean you want a drink?" The barkeep mistakenly presumed.

"Ha! He again asks me to sip upon this cup of sin!" Eddie offered a catlike snarl of revolt as he snapped, regurgitating at the capitalism shoved in his face with a righteous and reprimanding tone. "You charlatan! You offer people their last drink on their deathbed like some sacrilegious priest. Mortals know nothing of their last rites, nor that of the fallen. Do you not taste it in the air? Death befalling all of us with this. Very. Moment." Eddie's tone turned sickening, "Even you, Stew. It never ceases to amaze me how man.... With all the resources in the world chooses to squander it. That's true evil, I see it within all of you, why would you even seek to reject it when it will still dwell inside of you? Lay in waking. Do you not sense it? Why squander the sensation why even fight to keep it at bay?" Eddie leaned in, a monstrous smile hanging from his gaping maw. "I see it inside of you, Stew. The question is, will you keep denying it?"

"Uh..." Stew muttered, uncertain what to speak to.

Yet the seed of temptation had been planted. Mortal wills were so easy to crumble. Stew, behind the mask was now questioning himself why he had even taken this job. Soon that process would tumble into much more sinister, nonconformist thoughts like: Who created the system? Or maybe, why is the man in red compelling us to do his bidding?

The grandeur of Eddie's smile cast a shade across his face like no other, as he turned away and continued to utter… “Humanity is the true petulance of this land… Humanity is the true petulance…. Humanity is the…” His words carried forth in an endless droll leading him to his next encounter.


“What was that guy’s problem?” A patron's voice asked the barkeep, having inquiring what his ears has overheard.

“No idea, he said he was an oracle or somethin.” Stew offered a helpless shrug, “Wait, an oracle at the death games, does this mean I’m gonna die?” The barkeep, Stew, echoed with a tone of shock in his voice. It was evident that Stew was still processing his encounter with fear and a dumb look on his face.

“Nah, oracles don’t kill people, they just see your fate before you do.” The voice of another customer at his bar offered back, correcting him conversationally.

“Yeah. That’s what I’m worried about.” The barkeep responded with a big gulp and drawing a finger to his unusually tight collar. “Say uh, what does it mean to be the erm, how did he put it, wretchedness of man?”

“Stew, don’t worry about it. That guy was probably just a loon or somethin.” The loyal patron shrugged in response, discounting the worry and adding a layer of comfort to the barkeep.

The bartender gasped in subdued horror. “How do you know my name is Stew?!”

The figure responded flatly. “It’s uh… On your name tag.”

However, Stew knew he was not wearing his name tag on this day of days, for this. Very. Reason. So he wouldn’t encounter an oracle to scorn his life or curse him. Or, a bit more aptly, to be tracked down by a merciless killer and skinned alive in his sleep for pouring a bad drink. So, how did this other patron know his name was Stew? Except... That there was only one viable solution: Stew had met two oracles that day.

Or had he just forgotten to take off his name tag? The latter didn't occur to him. The only plausible reality was that he had met two different oracles at the exact same moment.

 

[King Ghidorah]

Standing atop a barstool beside the sushi-counter of a boutique little Asian-fusion eatery nestled amidst the commercial chaos of the recreation area, Rory threw his head back, beak in the air, and, making choked-off little squawking noises, snorked down his fifth serving of long-cut red snapper sashimi. His beady eyes rolled wildly, and his fellow patrons looked on in a combination of confusion and mild horror as an expertly cut slab of premium seafood disappeared down the gullet of an Antarctic waterfowl wearing a fanny-pack.

The penguin swallowed and settled his ruffled plumage, completely unself-conscious. He drained his beer, a brand of crab-juice-infused kelp-based lager he didn’t recognize but was rapidly learning to appreciate, hopped off the stool and trotted away into the crowd.

Now that he’d eaten (and gotten slightly buzzed) Rory had time to kill. His first instinct was to find a likely-looking mark and do some networking. This was a prime opportunity, after-all, both to maybe make some alliances before the killing started and to make connections he could leverage later.

As he walked, an old-timey marquis caught the penguin’s eye, complete with words spelled out in old-fashioned lightbulbs and neon-tube trim.

OPEN MIC STANDUP

Rory paused. He couldn’t recall whether or not he’d ever done stand-up comedy; There had been a time, long ago, when he’d had a steady job that provided him with both functionally unlimited resources and way too much free-time. He’d thrown a lot of parties, back then - mostly on-the-clock, which was one of the big reasons he didn’t have that job anymore. Stand-up sounded like the kind of thing he’d have tried, if only to shake up the routine of extremely horny raves, heavy-metal audacity, terrifying shadow-government agendas and Shakespearean improv.

He shrugged. If nothing else, it’d be a good way to get a few people’s attention, and he could never resist a good conversation-starter.

It never occurred to the penguin that he might have made a mistake, agreeing to the Death Game: his specialty was deals, sales, negotiations: although he’d shot a few D00ds, and even a mang or two, he wasn’t much of a fighter. He did, however, have vast experience in fleeing a disaster while everyone else involved killed each other, and almost as much setting traps and ambushes for pursuing hordes of angry investors.

In his own mind that made him a warrior-king in the making. Yessiree, everything was coming up Rory.

This was going to be a good day – he could feel it.

 

[King Ghidorah]

The venue, as it turned out, was fairly simple . There was a circular stage up against the rear wall, painted black. There were artsy modernist see-through tables with matching artsy modernist chairs, and an artsy modernist see-through bar. The lighting was a low, soothing shade of blue, and the patrons were largely subdued, watching in evident confusion tempered by mild interest as a penguin took the stage.

In the muddled greenish glare of a soft yellow spotlight, Rory fiddled with the microphone, trying to adjust the stand, but only managing to knock it over. After several seconds, he figured out how to detach the mic from its clip.

It was coming back to him; he had done this before, long before his time in the Crossroads – he’d just never managed to finish a set because it was during one of those really awkward times when serious guys, like, real heavy-in-the-game D00ds from like eight different planets, were trying to kill him. For completely unrelated reasons he’d been using a lot of really fucked apotheotic drugs during that particular month, the kind that gave you frankly irresponsible psychic powers for like an hour, but then made you shit your entire ass so hard you went backwards through time and spent the rest of the day avoiding yourself while remembering how to walk. That made it real hard to keep track of what had actually happened and what was retro-hypothetical mental time-ghosts.

Someone in the audience coughed meaningfully, snapping Rory out of his thousand-yard stare.

Right! Stand-up comedy. Refocusing on the present, Rory raised the mic to his bill.

“’sup D00ds. Sorry I checked out for a bit. I’ve done a lot of stuff over the years with, like, weird science-type-items, so sometimes I don’t know what was real anymore and what was just the time-drugs… but Anywho, I’m Rory, and like the rest of you d00ds, I’m here to kill people, get famous, and make scads of fat stacks.”

There were scattered applause.

“Thank you, thank you, much appreciated…. So when I’m not doing this stuff, I sell guns. I mean, sometimes. I sell other stuff too – I’m an entrepreneur, mang, ya gotta diversify. That’s just good business - but its almost always the guns that bring out the weirdos…

 

[Ridley]

Mr. Satan lead Flak across to the recreation level like a father with a disappointed child, just gently tapping him on the shoulder whenever he got lost, and with Shinku giving a more forceful tap whenever Flak got very lost.

“What’cha thinking ya might wanna eat, buddy?” Mister Satan asked

Flak gave a groan. “Like… some meat, I guess?” He asked. Adder always knew what he wanted, which is why he liked to pretend he was bringing them to a vegetarian restaurant. He can’t believe he missed that obnoxious jerk right now, but…

Mister Satan thought about that, before going, “errr… Just meat?”

“Is there any other good food?” Flak asked with a bit of irritation in his voice. Mister Satan just gave a nod, “well, in that case…”

Flak Was quickly lead to a place covered in red and white. Mister Satan lead him to a booth, a solemn look suddenly, and quickly, changing to one of ridiculous inspiration.

“Do you like sandwiches?” Mister Satan asked, looking excitedly to Flak, as he sat next to shinku on the other side (neither warrior capable of physically fitting on the same side as Flak himself)

“Err… yeah. Meat with some bread, which, bread’s kind of a shame, but it soaks in some good juices!” Flak noted, his frown giving way to confusion. “But what kinda guy hates sandwiches anyways?”

Mister Satan’s grin grew broad. “Just… gimme a second, Flak. I thought of something you might like?”

Flak looked a little surprised, but Mister satan got up and quickly talked to the cashier - Flak dimly realized this was some kind of chicken restaurant - and as he did, the cashier’s face turned dark.

It was only a few minutes before Mister Satan returned with a bucket of Chicken, one Zaying took comfortably, and something else wrapped up, which he promptly handed to Flak.

“The heck’s this? Doesn’t feel like a sandwich…” Flak mused, noticing it was a bit too chunky and weird.

“Just open it up.”

Flak got to work using his all-too-fat fingers to unveil the beastly thing, and he gasped as he saw it.

“Wait, so this… Satan, what on earth…”

“It’s called a Double down, Champ.”

A sandwich diabolically designed with Chicken instead of bread, with a delicious inside of Sauce, cheese, and bacon. All useless, meatless parts stripped away to create a sandwich for men

Flak licked his lips, while Shinku shirked away from it like it was some unholy creature. He didn’t hesitate to take one big bite, his first assault consuming half the massive sandwich in one bite.

“You likin’ that there, Flak?” Mr. Satan asked with a smile, seeming… genuinely happy to see the big guy’s spirits up.

“Yeah, could you…” mister satan added, before stopping himself, holding up a hand as he finished chewing.

“Yeah, like four more of these, please. You want any, Shinku?”

The shadowy assassin’s eyes bulged as he put a hand to his stomach at the barbaric display. “I’m… actually just going to have some fries. Think I lost my appetite.”

Flak shrugged. More for him.

It wasn’t long before Flak had eaten just a little past a disgusting amount of double downs, and a couple extra-large helpings of cola, before he felt his stomach start to gurgle, and he stopped himself from finishing another helping.

“Heh, think I gotta stop. Don’t wanna get all sick before the game.”

Mr. Satan just shrugged nervously, enjoying a far less balanced diet of coleslaw and chicken. “Yeah, don’t wanna start having to run around on a full stomach.”

Flak gave a grin. “Heh, yeah. You know, I’m feeling a lot better after this. You guys really cheered me up!” Flak would add, before suddenly reaching over the table and giving both of them an unreasonably strong bear hug that left both of their backs quivering. “Listen, both ya? Buds for Life. You just tell me if you need anything after this, and Ol’ Flak’ll make sure ya got it. Capiche?” The WYVERN general asked.

Mr. Satan’s response was more of an odd wheeze, as he looked to him, “just don’t…punch me like ya mean it on the island, maybe?”

Flak just blinked. “Why would I ever punch ya? Just ‘cause of the contest? There’s gonna be other enemies, man. Listen, unless we’re the last two I’ll let it slide. Hell, I can probably have Ridney pay for like, back to life surgery if it goes bad, too.”

“Oh… that’s… pretty good. ” Mister Satan replied, giving a smile to that, while Shinku just gave an earnest smile.

“It’s been a good time meeting you, Flak.” Shinku added, “It’s good to be called your friend. I hope to get to see you as one on the island, too.” the Warrior replied.

Flak gave a grin. “Yeah, we’ll all smash the rest of ‘em, no problem. And then… we’ll go out and get a bucket of chicken together! Heh!”

 

[Roy Mustang]

Ester idly pulled at the elastic of her mask. Did they really need these things? Her boss had always said that when your operation involved the forceful collection of competent warriors, every bit of anonymity was important to keep. Ester didn’t disagree with this idea exactly, but she felt relatively confident that if a freakin’ murderous shark-man decided it wanted her dead afterwards, it wasn’t going to stop because it couldn’t be sure it had been her under the mask.

No, Ester’s method for not getting murdered in the next two months? Don’t piss off the super-powered warriors to begin with. She’d successfully avoided being part of the talent-scouting teams, that was where the really personal grudges would be coming from. Now she just had to last the rest of the pre-show without making enemies. She’d sweet-talked that idiot Potts into switching this shift. He thought it was a bad thing to have to guard the route to the back rooms of the Carnivale? This was the least danger-prone place to be in the whole floor! You just had to circle the outside of the public area, keeping an eye on the employee exits. No customers making demands, no angry demigods swearing revenge. Easy! Sure you might be missing out on the sights and sounds of the entertainment floor, but that was an acceptable exchange. This was how you kept yourself out of trouble.

Ester froze as she rounded the corner of a rainbow-hued decorative fern, noting the absolutely massive silhouette moving in the direction of one of the restricted areas ahead. Oh crap oh shit oh god, which one was that? There were so many crazy big guys competing this year, was he one of the ones that would kill you dead just for breathing wrong? The guy was moving remarkably stealthily for this size, if she hadn’t caught the shine off his bald head she might’ve glossed right over him. Maybe she should just turn around, pretend she didn’t see anything? Ahhh, but the boss was specifically trying to crack down on wandering “guests”. The cameras would pick that guy up once he was inside, would anyone believe her if she claimed not to have seen him?

With a healthy portion of hesitance and a double serving of dread, Esther hurried over to the man, clearing her throat in what she hoped was an authoritative manner.

“Something I can help you find, sir?” She asked, a petrified expression thankfully hidden behind her smiling mask.

The massive figure froze, and Ester briefly imagined how she’d have to react if he tried to fight or run. Could she fake an injury maybe? The man straightened up to his full height, somehow towering over Ester even with his back turned. She tensed, waiting for any number of responses. He whirled around with enough speed that Ester almost expected he was about to attack. Instead she found herself face to mask with a determinedly earnest expression, twinkling even amidst the loud glamor of the entertainment floor.

“But of course, madam! You have most fortuitous timing! I believe I have disoriented myself among the splendors of this fine establishment. As competitors in the forthcoming challenge we are to be beacons for those visiting the Carnivale this year. My aim was to find a suitable venue for a demonstration. After all, my immaculate physique is sure to inspire the audience ahead of my contest for the title of champion!”

Expression hidden behind the ever-smiling mask, Ester stared in confusion.

“Well I mean, but you… Huh? You’re already a contestant, we’ve got your promotional interview already… I think the preshow is a chance for you guys to relax before…”

The giant man made a placating gesture with his massive hands, visibly sparkling somehow as he did so. Ester caught herself noticing how delicate his eyelashes looked, which did nothing to help her sense of bafflement with this whole conversation.

“There will be time enough for rest later. I was specifically requested to provide this year’s Death Game with the greatest possible performance, in the efforts to improve its reputation against its more established competitors! The morale of the attending audience is of the utmost priority for a successful venture!”

“...But the death game contestants aren’t, we don’t” Ester stammered, brow furrowing. This guy was way too cheerful about being coerced into fighting to the death.

“Why are you trying to help the Carnivale?”

“I would think that the Carnivale would welcome voluntary extolling of their virtues! The reputation of the Cabal is less than desirable, with the lack of voluntary spirits to match it! If that reputation could be improved…”

The man leaned forwards, his looming presence going from a fact of his being to a very intentional choice in the space of a second.

“...Your methods of recruitment may no longer require such duplicitous tactics.”

His voice rumbled with the condemning portent of an oncoming thunderstorm. Ester was an authority here right now. She knew that on a technical level. But she’d be arbiter-damned before she tried anything with this guy right now.

“Ah buh, well, I mean, if you wanted an audience there’s a stage over by the fountain in the main plaza. That would be the best, erm… the best place to…” She stammered, pointing vaguely towards the center of the Recreation level.

“An excellent suggestion!” The intimidating nature was gone again just as swiftly as it had appeared. The massive figure straightened, raising a clenched fist passionately as he stared at something up in the ceiling.

“A demonstration of my flawless physique is just what the audience needs to enhance their excitement for the coming competition! Inform your superiors that they may wish to have cameras recording the location, I shall arrive there in but a moment!”

Without any pause for answer or information, the man swept off in the direction Ester had pointed. She was left to stare dumbfounded as he marched off with an air of inevitability. How had she managed to keep any semblance of composure during that whole exchange?

Maybe these masks weren’t such a bad idea after all.

 

[Roy Mustang]

The Central square of the Recreation Level boasted an impressive fountain. An artisanal bramble of marble roses sent arcing jets of water up into the sky, before landing in a well kept duckpond. A quite real rose hedge ringed the outside edges of the pond, marble statues of the Man in Red struck various poses from above the rose beds. On one side of this centerpiece, across from the famed Le Masque Café stood a wooden stage, likely positioned there for musician accompaniment given the variety of instrument stands and finely engraved seats that sat to the side of it. The stage had stood empty all evening, and various high-ticket audience members had simply enjoyed a pleasant meal in the relatively more laid-back portion of the Recreation level.

Armstrong ascended the steps with a comfortable pace, completely at ease despite the growing number of stares. Despite his suggestion, there was only one visible cameraman, perched on a balcony nearby, one eye glued to the camera he had trained on the stage. Regardless, there was a sizable crowd already in attendance, and Armstrong waited just long enough on the stage for people to notice his presence.

“Distinguished gentlemen! Esteemed ladies! I bid you all good evening and good health, on this eve of our glorious competition! In order for you to properly appreciate the momentous confrontation you are about to witness, it is only fitting for you to witness firsthand the power and excellence of the contestants! I shall display unparalleled strength the likes of which you will not see outside of this prestigious event! Perhaps unequaled in all the crossroads!”

Armstrong straightened his uniform with a distinguished cough before he continued,

“ Regretfully the necessary precautions of the power-nullifiers prevent me from demonstrating the full alchemical techniques that have been passed down the Armstrong family line for generations, however! Do not think that this limiter will-”

“Hold up just a moment there!” The voice was so forceful that even Armstrong was taken aback for a moment. He glanced to the side of the stage, where a casually dressed businessman was stepping up onto the stage.

“Unequaled strength?” The newcomer stared Armstrong down with the fierce eyes of a hardened warrior, one hand at the collar of his shirt.

“Indeed! I am the Strongarm Alchemist, Alex Louise Armstrong!” the alchemist chuckled, turning to face the other man. This would serve to make a much better performance than a simple routine demonstration!

“Then I cannot miss this opportunity. We may not have the fortune to meet one another on the island. I wish to see your strength for myself!” The newcomer whipped his hand outwards, his coat and shirt flying into the air as he stared Armstrong down. He was in near perfect shape himself, a muscular frame with a back covered in a grand ornate tattoo of a coiling dragon. He rolled his shoulders, his own power-nullifier blinking its silent red light around his neck.

“But of course!” Armstrong roared with excitement, His own uniform’s coat flung away with similar haste. The State Alchemist sparkled as he flexed his muscles, chuckling faintly to himself as he grunted with effort. The challenger stared him down without hesitation or emotion.

“That’s rad.” He declared with the same control. The newcomer flexed briefly, then dropped into a loose position, arms brought up into a half guard.

“No, Wait!” The cameraman called up from the balcony, “Wait wait wait wait no no no!”

Armstrong and the newcomer glanced up at the cameraman. He peered around from the side of the machine, and Armstrong noted with faint confusion that the cameraman must have been watching the camera’s lens through his eyepatch.

“You can’t get into a fight before the fight before the fight, Kiryu-chan!”

The cameraman vaulted over the railing of the balcony and rushed over to the stage with an unnervingly eager energy, bypassing the stairs entirely to standing-leap directly onto the front edge of the stage. He remained in a deep crouch there, exhaling deeply before he rose, his own shirt held at extension off to the side.

“At least, not without me getting a piece of it!”

The three shirtless figures stood in a triangle on the stage, staring one another down, waiting to see who would be the first to make an advance. The millisecond before the eye-patched man looked ready to rush, there was an audible beep from all three of their power-nullifying collars.

“This is just a courtesy reminder to you all that in the documents that you all signed to get in here it’s expressly stated that we do not allow fighting in the Recreation level. Or well, any of them, for that matter. We can and will enforce this ruling through extremely unpleasant force if you can’t play nice with each other! M’kay, that’s everything!”

The static-laced voices in their collars clicked back off, leaving the three men standing upon the stage with a crowd of onlookers watching them carefully.

“Well.” The eye-patched camera man huffed, “That’s shit.”

“Very well! It seems that our contest of strength must be pursued in more convivial manners!” Armstrong straightened up, stroking his chin as he eyed the collection of sitting furniture at the back of the stage, “Let us demonstrate our power for our waiting audience!”

With a seeming ease, Armstrong knelt down, grabbing a pair of massive drums, lifting one in each hand as he struck a pose.

'Witness the power that has been passed down the Armstrong Family line for generations!"

Kiryu crossed his arms, fierce gaze turning from Armstrong to the furniture.

“You’re on!”

The Yakuza man bent his knees, holding a large gong, stand and all, above his head with a fierce determination. With a delighted laugh, Majima swung a mallet, causing a clamorous impact. Kiryu grunted struggling to maintain his position as the sound reverberated across the plaza.

“Sorry, Kiryu-chan, I couldn’t resist.” The Mad Dog shrugged before turning back to Armstrong.

“Most impressive fortitude!” The state alchemist nodded his appreciation, but was far from stopping. Armstrong hefted a metal music stand, a series of brass instruments strung along it’s length like the weights of a barbell. Tubas clanked together as Armstrong hefted the massive assortment of metal above his head with both hands. Grunting with effort, he shifted the weight to a single uplifted arm, then brought his other arm down, clenched into a flex as he sparkled. “You must also recall the importance of dynamic posture when demonstrating your prowess!”

“Woah!” Majima stared mouth agape for a second, then broke into a grin, “Dynamic posture? You don’t know the meaning of the phrase! Kiryu-chan! Do the thing!”

“Right!”

With a grunt of exertion, Kiryu hefted a massive ornate chair, balancing it upon his shoulders while Majima lounged atop its armrests in a side-ways plank.

“Dyyyyynammiccc Posturing!” The eye-patched trilled from his perch.

Armstrong set down his improvised barbell, now laughing thoroughly. He turned, walking towards the back of the stage.

“Most commendable, but don’t count yourself victorious so quickly! I’m not beaten yet!”

It was a bad angle to grip from, with a horrible center of balance, but all the same, Armstrong placed both hands upon one of the marble statues of the Man in Red that ringed the fountain. Armstrong heaved, muscles straining, veins bulging, as he attempted to lift the statue upwards.

“Holy shit, Baldy!” Majima started, breaking his pose to grip the arm of the chair in excitement as he watched. Kiryu struggled under the weight of Majima’s squirming, but they both looked on transfixed as Armstrong struggled with the six foot marble statue. The Collar around Armstrong’s neck was beeping like a heart-rate monitor now. The massive muscle-man’s breath was pouring from his nose in steaming vents like an ox, veins bulging along his chest and forehead as his blood surged through his veins like a thunderous tide. The wooden beams of the stage underneath him began to creak warningly, small cracks forming in the beams as the Marble statue began to ascend from the ground. Armstrong roared with sheer effort as he forced the large stone first one foot, then two feet into the air. The base of the statue was almost level with the floor of the stage, but Armstrong wasn’t stopping there. It was clear he intended to deadlift the thing fully above his head.

With a high-pitched squeal the collar on Armstrong’s neck flashed brightly, then went dark. Armstrong had only a moment to register the sound before a sharp pain arched across his back. The marble statue slipped from his grasp as his face knotted up in pain. He collapsed to one knee and the large stone thudded back to the ground, the impact causing Kiryu to lose his own balance, dropping the chair and a wailing Majima in a tumbling heap.

“Ah geeze!” The static-laced voice from Armstrong’s collar spoke up again. “What the hell are you numbskulls playing at! You went and tripped the limiter during the freakin’ pre-game! I swear! Do you realize how close you came to just exploding in front of a live audience dude? If you’re not dead or something, I think that’s quite enough showing off for one day, alright?”

The Mad Dog bounced to his feet, turning to the audience with a dramatic bow and flourish as Kiryu walked over to the crouched Armstrong, offering him a hand up.

“An impressive contest. I’ll await you on the island below.” the Yakuza nodded.

“Mhrm! Indeed!” Armstrong accepted the hand up with a twinkle, though he winced as he rose to his feet. He had most likely wrenched a muscle in his back with that ill-advised lift. That would need to be addressed while there was still time.

“Until that time!” The State Alchemist clenched a fist to his chest, nodding to Kiryu. He then turned to leave the stage, pausing only to recollect his discarded shirt. The Yakuza pair left as well, leaving the now disheveled stage abandoned once more, with a crowd of vaguely confused onlookers seated at their dinner tables.

For a moment, there was silence in the plaza, broken only by the waters of the fountain.

“...That had to be staged, right?” Someone asked.

 

[John Connor]

Vatallion was heading toward the Recreation room while passing a few guys with strange suits, both different in appearance, once with a eyepatch and another with some sort of suit and another man with remarkably big muscles who were some kinds of solider too but they were only in passing.

Suddenly a loud, ringing tone rang through the boxes in all the areas “"This is the first call for all attendees of the death game to come to the barracks to get everything you are getting for the death games!

The Commander General was gobsmacked understanding nothing of what came out of the box in the first place and began to yell “IN LATIN PLEASE!”

A sigh occurred and the speech was converted in the nearest language translation station.

“"Hoc primum vocate omnes attendee's ad ludum mortis mortis venire ad castra ut omnia quae postulastis!"
“.....”

The soldier walked toward the Rec room, finishing off anything else he had to do for the time being and it seemed like everything was being cleaned up now as contestant after contestant began leaving for the barracks.

After searching through books, learning about guns, learning about the contestants and more, he thought things would be all right for now.

 

[King Ghidorah]

… so yeah. I felt really sorry for the zoo-keeper, but what was I supposed to do? Show up at the hospital and go ‘false alarm D00ds, I’m totally real! I was just hanging out with the ancestors for an atavistic mental cleanse ‘cause I got fired from the best job I’ve ever had, and this guy ruined my vacation!’ Naw mang; There’s no version of that story that doesn’t end with me either stabbing a guy or meeting an old d00d in a suit… Or both, and I’ve already got too many stories about that.”

Rory paused as a round of laughter rippled through the crowd. His set, which was mostly just anecdotes and some mild observational humour, was winding down. More importantly, the bird’s mouth was getting dry – it was time to wrap things up.

“Anywho. This is the first time I’ve ever actually finished this set. Usually a d00d shows up with a gun or holds the city to ransom or tries to blow up the planet right around the time I start talking about my old counterintelligence gig. So thanks for not doing any of that stuff.”

Rory waved at the audience with one flipper, receiving applause , but no catcalls.

“Goodnight d00ds!”

He hopped off the stage and trotted over to the bar, where, after hauling himself over the lip of the countertop and pausing to scratch the bottom of his chin with one of his webbed feet – an awkward procedure even without his fanny-pack in the way but one he managed with aplomb - he helped himself to a waiting glass of water.

“You know,” said the bartender, trying like hell to figure out how Rory was holding the glass and growing more disturbed the closer she looked, “you should probably get going. The barracks should be opening soon. You’re in…”

The bartender pulled out a datapad, swiping through a series of menus. On the stage, another presumptive comedian was searching in vain for the microphone Rory had pocketed.

“Rory, right? You should be in room 15.”

The penguin put the glass down, his beak making wet clacking noises as he worked it open and shut a couple of times in satisfaction.

“D00d, we get rooms?”

The bartender nodded. “Yeah. I mean, just until the competition starts. ”

“Swank.”

Rory hopped off the counter, once again waddling towards the elevator.

“Later d00d!”