DGS4 -- The 'Barracks'

[The Man in Red]

Though called the barracks, it isn't anything so austere as that. It does feature private rooms for each contestant, in case anyone wishes to get some quite time and rest before event kicks off; these are furnished much like the rest of the place, in the typical style of early 20th century Earth luxury, though kept comfortable with more modern amenities and touches. The area otherwise features a central common area for interacting with other contestants and/or competitors, as well as several assorted terminals and computers for accessing information much like available in the library.

The barracks will open circa 12 PM EST today, according to the schedule in Discord. At that time, an announcement will be made through the staging facilities to announce as much. A secondary announcement for mandatory gathering here for last-minute preparations will come when sign-ups end on the 9th (which I will make an update regarding), at which point everyone will receive their bags of supplies/survival items and anyone who hasn't will receive their preferred flavor of monitoring limit device.

 

[King Shark]

The room was big. It was decorated well, furnished expertly, and featured its space in a way that felt conscientious. A larger being could cartwheel away from one of the couches, backspring to a handstand, flip a sick handspring, and stick the landing without smacking into the television. Stitch, being the size that he was, could probably swing from one of the ceiling lights and do a double jackknife twist that would blow a gymnast’s mind and still have room to piss a five foot golden arc without worrying about catching anything in the splash zone.

Nobody had entered the barracks yet, so he had the run of the place. One of his four hands clutched a bag of intergalactic grubs. The succulent squirmers glowed right through the doggy bag poly lining and all. He rummaged around, plucked a fat natural grub between two fingers, and bombed it into his open maw. When he clamped down on its thorax there was a noisy squelch, like plunging a spoon into a bowl of Mac ‘N Cheese. It burst a symphony, playing a harmonic symposium of flavor across his huge tongue. What was that, creole seasoning? Had they creole seasoned these suckers live right in the bag? And they called him a monster!

Sometimes an empty room can do strange things to the mind. There’s impulses, you know? Things that you can push away, because they’re inappropriate. When there’s a vacant couch up ahead and you know someone’s going to sit on that couch later but they just haven’t arrived yet, it’s not entirely appropriate to think ‘I need to do something weird over there before anyone gets here’. And a rational mind? That mind might remember that, at any moment, other folks might pop on over to the barracks to get their bearings. They might try and snag a little rest and relaxation before the shit pops off, and try to feel at home a bit. Not everybody, of course; a facility branded under the flag of ‘Death Game Barracks’ doesn’t exactly beg the comforts of home, but some folks, the ‘Heroes’, might like to try and get in the zone.

Stitch unbuttoned his jumper and pulled it down to the waist.

It was time to get weird. Nobody looking? Why not get weird? He was here to get weird. He was here to get freaky.

He stepped out of his red jumper one leg at a time, tossed an entire fistfull of grubs into his open mouth, then squatted down over the carpet. He stretched out his legs, one, then the other. He flexed his glutes, and I mean, he really flexed them.

Then he sat down on the floor, put his four arms in front of him, stuck his legs between them, and began to pull his ass across the floor like a dog with an anal gland problem. His tongue lolled out, he squinted his eyes, and he got really into it. His blue body tensed, back muscles quivering, while he dragged himself like a roomba across as much of the room as he could cover as quickly as he could cover it.

When he put his jumper back on he looked back over his work with satisfaction. No tells. A job well done.

An earthy whiff wafted past his sniffer and tugged the experiment’s attention to the edge of the room. A fresh pot of coffee had been left on for the guests. A big ol’ rotund pot, sitting on a hot plate under a drip feed; that drip feed sat atop a mini-fridge hotel mini-bar style. Stitch scrabbled over on all sixes and pulled up to the mini, which he had to climb and mount to reach the coffee pot.

He kicked open the refrigerator, snagged a pocket shot of whiskey with one hand, grabbed the pot of coffee with another, and grabbed another fistfull of grubs with yet one more. In a single practiced motion he housed a shot of whiskey, a pot of coffee, and a batch of seasoned grubs.

The television was welcoming, and he flipped to the old timey horrors channel, which was always a comfort.

While he was indulging in ‘The Crawling Spleen’, however, he felt the stirring of his bowels, and knew that he must attend.

Sometime soon they’d be locked in the barracks, a group of destitutes fighting for their lives, whose one last shot at a functioning bathroom might be the unit they’d been blessed with here.

Stitch made use. He emptied his system, wiped profusely, and then began to cram a lord’s worth of two-ply into the bowl. He flushed.

The water began to rise. It tried to swallow the tissue paper, but it hadn’t been expecting a cranium sized load of soak-up in its piping. It gurgled, struggling, and tried to swallow the bite.

Stitch fed the end of the roll right from the roller into the water and flushed twice more.

It began to overflow.

Triumphantly, he walked back into the common area and began to raid the fridge.

 

[Christopher Chaos]

The first specimen arrived followed close behind by the second.

While Experiment 626 wasted away in the lavatory, Shadow the Hedgehog crept out of his isolated room and into the barracks. He’d spent most of his time there, brooding, since being teleported to the competition; he had no interest in exchanging pleasantries with peasants. Once he’d realized a select few — if anyone at all, as evidenced by the relative peace and quiet of the last couple of hours — had already made their way up here, it seemed the obvious destination.

He heard the clanging and banging of the new arrival before long, though, and his hedgehog ears perked up. Fresh meat.

The sight that the creature had left in its wake, though, was… formidable. Somehow, it had managed to leave a distinct stench in nearly every corner of the common room, one that made even Shadow shudder a bit. He lazily paced around the room, making sure not to step where the smell seemed strongest, before finally, he heard the flush of the toilet — the sign of the other experiment’s inevitable return.

He bounced off the ground, the unique lift of his Air Shoes catapulting him up to the top of a nearby water dispenser, like one you might find in an office, with a bunch of paper cups stacked beneath its spout. He spun on his heels, watching as Experiment 626 clambered out of the bathroom and back into view.

Heh, he thought, what an ugly fuck.

Shadow hadn’t had much time in the world, yet — or, he supposed, the galaxy — and he was already starting to collect plenty of empirical evidence that he was, in fact, the Ultimate Lifeform. He’d already begun to unlock memories that had been implanted within him, and he could see the entire Crossroads spilling out before his eyes, ready to be conquered. He didn’t know exactly what conquering meant, or why he’d be doing it, but he knew that the power to do so was within his grasp. At this point, he couldn’t really see why this test run through the Death Game was even necessary.

That why, though, was giving him a bit of pause, and maybe the Death Game would shed some light there. Because he knew that he could, but should he? For what purpose?

Stitch swung open the fridge, not even clocking Shadow off to the side of him despite the hedgehog’s immensely hypnotic presence and his feet dangling off the edge of the water cooler, within the experiment’s field of view. The black-and-red spiny mammal shifted his gaze from Stitch to the door of the lavatory the creature emerged from. He spotted water trickling out from underneath the door, slowly seeping through the grout inlay of the barracks’ tile floor.

He leapt off the water cooler, landing with an airy squish on the tile. Stitch’s ears perked up, and he craned his head back, catching sight of Shadow just a few meters away. The hedgehog crossed his arms and popped out a hip, glaring over at the experiment with fire beneath his blood-red eyes.

“You’ve made a mess,” he droned, lifting his brow.

Stitch stared at him for a moment, then shoved some form of foodstuff into his gullet and started to chew, turning his attention back to the fridge and the task at hand.

Shadow couldn’t help but laugh — a low laugh, more of a slight chuckle, really — as the creature savagely ravaged the supplies the Carnivale had left for them. The jets at the bottom of his Air Shoes activated and he skated over towards stitch, leaning against the wall beside the minifridge. “You seem quaint,” Shadow extended a hand. “I am Shadow, the ultimate lifeform.”

Stitch didn’t look up from his quest.

Shadow smirked, retracted his hand, and glanced up at the door to the bathroom. Water continued to slowly flow out from beneath it, spreading across the room and towards the rug in the center.

For approximately an eighth of a second, Shadow considered doing something about it.

He quickly decided the task was beneath him.

Some lesser lifeform would come take care of it in three… two… one…

 

[Elizabeth La Varet]

Tia had indeed been forced to strip for the patrons in the bar. Did she lose the game of pool on purpose? Probably. Not like it really mattered. She was more than a little tipsy at this point. Now that the barracks were open, she could finally grab a nap on an actual bed instead of a stone slab in some jail cell. Her body ached at the thought of it. Stashing her newly acquired pack of cigarettes and fancy lighter in her bra. She sauntered her way over to the barracks entrance and made her way into the common room. Why did it smell musty?

“Ah look. Someone to clean up the bathroom mess.” Shadow said, quite sure of himself.

Tia raised an eyebrow and then realized she was standing in a pool of water that was slowly getting bigger. It wasn’t long before she realized there was also someone digging through the mini fridge, munching away at anything they could get. She pursed her lips in thought, taking stock of the shadowy looking hedgehog before her.

“If you’re going for that ominous brooding look, you’ve nailed it.”

She tapped her chin. “But what are you brooding about?”

Shadow looked at her with disdain.

Stitch came out from behind the fridge door munching on whatever food he had decided to grab.

“I’ll say this. Whatever this Death Game is has attracted some interesting contestants.”

Reaching into her bra she took out a bag of mini muffins.

“Try these little dude. I got them from the food court. They’re great!” She said to Stitch, waving the bag at him.

The blue experimental life form eyed the bag and scuddled over to grab it. Taking it in his free paw he ripped the package open and munched on the little pastries within.

“Oh and if you’re going to flood the bathroom, you gotta do the sinks.”

Tia pushed open the bathroom door. The sound of sinks being turned on could be heard from within. Shadow and Stitch looked at the door, waiting for whatever the brunette was about to do.

“Oh shit!” She cried from within.

All they could hear was what sounded like someone falling and the loud shattering of porcelain. The brunette emerged from the bathroom covered in water looking like she had done nothing wrong.

“The sink was totally broken when I went in there. Right?” She gave a thumbs up and moved further into the common room.

“I’ll catch you two later. I…am going to take a nap.”

Shadow raised an eyebrow as the brunette left the room. Stitch had already emptied the bag of muffins, letting out a loud belch. Before finally exiting the room, Tia patted her chest with her fist and let out a burp of equal size. Making her way down the corridor the brunette found a private room with her name on it and opened the door. Putting her bag down on the little table she smiled. The room was designed like a college dorm. It had a small table, a single comfy looking bunk and some lockers for gear. Tia pulled her shirt up over her head and draped it over the chair before face planting into the cool sheets of the bed. Oh goddess was it comfortable. Before long she was carried away into the realm of sleep.

 

[Mollymauk Tealeaf]

Wunya pressed down on the handle of the door to the barracks with her foot, then kicked it the rest of the way open softly, continuing to eat her pasta all the while. She had elected to take the entire serving dish from the cafeteria rather than dishing out a single portion from the large metal bowl like a normal person would.

Upon entering, she ignored the tiny blue butt sticking out of the refrigerator and wagging like a small dog. So deep in her mindset to relax and enjoy her food, she completely missed clocking the other dark and spiky-haired entity entirely. The Coach was on a mission, and when they saw the couch and large television in front of it, she gave a small reserved smile, almost imperceptible but for Wunya that was the equivalent of doing a jig and singing with glee. The former Arcadian Mage Hunter headed straight that way, stepping over the small stream of water coming from the bathroom without too much of a care about it, apart from not wanting to get her shoes or the cuffs of her tracksuit pant legs soaked.

“It smells like old locker room in here,” she said to nobody in particular, and wrinkled her nose as she plopped down on the couch and put the giant bowl of pasta in her lap. She looked around for the remote and found it with a note that said Sanitized for the health and safety of all Death Game contestants and she grunted disapproving, the irony lost on her as she got up to retrieve the black rectangle. Finally settling back on the odd-smelling cushions with a sigh of relaxation and her carb-loading meal as she hit the power button.

A selection of streaming services popped up, categorized by planet of the crossroads and she chose Erde Nona and started typing her favorite program into the search bar. Her massive fingers made for slow work on the tiny remote and she found herself having to backtrack and erase, taking an exceedingly long time. Wunya chose to not snap the device in her hand in two and was rewarded for her patience by finally finding the program ‘Epic Fails’. As the first clip played she sat back and laughed watching a remote control plane hit a Wolfman in the nards as the lycanthrope howled.

The Coach quietly narrated the events she was seeing, as well as giving commentary in real time.

“Ha! This man running with meat tucked in pants will not get to safety of fence before dogs get him. Why would he think this thing possible? He is running fast. No, no, he is almost to fence. Bad form at climbing fence, not how I would do that thing. Ha! Dogs get him. I knew this whole time, Ha! Look at tiny dog attached to butt as he try to still climb fence. Ha! this show, it is classic,” Wunya said, quietly laughing and talking to herself. The tall, six and half foot half-orc with the silver ponytail in a tracksuit oblivious to any discomfort of anyone else currently around her as she enjoyed her food and television.

 

[Rebecca Chambers]

When she finally exited the library, Rebecca simply could not shake the troubling conclusions she had drawn from her review of the contestant rosters. All of that knowledge hung over her head like a dark pall as she paced through the halls with soft, echoing footsteps—dampening her spirits and causing her shoulders to droop beneath its weight, her ordinarily bright, inquisitive gaze dulled, clouded by the horrors she had absorbed.

But for the time being, she chose to push these sullen thoughts aside, though they still clung like cobwebs at the fringes of her mind. The announcement at the train station lingered in her memory even now, and the doctor figured it was high time to make a bold decision: to seek out these so-called barracks and face some of her fellow contestants head-on.

The term itself made her feel genuinely unwell, barracks. It gave off the impression that they were soldiers, or maybe prisoners.

Perhaps they were both.

For all her best efforts, Rebecca couldn't rid herself of this uneasy, queasy feeling that clung to her as she made her way across the multiple levels of the facility, much too trapped inside her own head to properly appreciate the stylish furnishings and technological marvels they boasted, beyond a cursory glance... and after some dedicated searching, she eventually found an elevator that would bring her to her desired destination.

As she wandered into the common room of the barracks, Rebecca's forest green eyes flitted about, taking in her surroundings with an air of caution.

Everything was sleek. Comfortable. Inoffensively elegant with its metallic modern appliances and coffee-colored walls. Dominating the space was a luxurious sitting area, accompanied by plush armchairs, couches, and a state-of-the-art widescreen television, broadcasting a popular program from Erde Nona she was... only passingly familiar with. In one corner sat a modern kitchenette, complete with a fridge and a disappointingly empty coffee maker.

The sound of rushing water drew her attention to an adjacent water fountain, while a nearby, distinctively marked door indicated the restroom. However, her steps faltered as she noticed the growing puddle of discolored water seeping out from under said door, drenching the tile floor outside in a wash of grey and shredded, moist toilet paper.

Glancing quickly around the room, Rebecca recognized several faces from her earlier research, all of them evidently ignoring the glaring plumbing failure.

There was Experiment 626, the little blue dog-like creature with far too many limbs and an appetite for destruction. And Shadow, the red and black bipedal... being that allegedly resembled a hedgehog, or something. She also noticed Wunya, a muscular half-orc who was cackling at a cat clawing up a set of blinds on the television.

Well, so much for socializing. She could always do that... later. When things were less... water-logged.

Pushing her glasses up her nose, Rebecca ducked her head and shuffled past them, tentatively tiptoeing through the pool of water that was now forming what appeared to be a fucking miniature lakeside resort inside the barracks, trying to keep her boots dry.

She walked down a long, carpeted hallway, leaving a trail of damp boot-prints in her wake, each footstep muffled by the luxurious red rug lining the floor. Intricate wrought iron wall sconces illuminated her path, casting a warm, yellowish glow across the paneled walls, sparkling along the glamorous wood and gilded accents elegantly dispersed about the space.

Arriving at the last door on the left at the very end of the long corridor, Rebecca noted that the rosewood door was labelled with a number one. Her private quarters, she assumed.

After cracking open the door just a bit to peer inside, noting that it was indeed empty, she pushed it open all the way—and then spun on her heel to quickly yank it shut behind her, blocking out the sounds of rowdy laughter and running water drifting from the common room.

God bless.

For a moment, Rebecca could only sigh, slumping heavily against the door. Her eyelids fluttered shut in exhaustion, her lashes casting dusky shadows over her cheeks, a few stray strands of hair falling over her face. However, eventually her incessant curiosity prevailed, and she reluctantly opened her eyes to take in her surroundings.

It was a rather nice room, as it turned out; dimly lit by electric wall lamps, dancing and flickering merrily with artificial candlelight inside their teardrop-shaped bulbs, which cast a mellow gleam across the lustrously dark hardwood floor. At the center of the chamber was a bed, its mahogany frame draped in soft white linens and topped with at least six fluffy, velvety throw pillows. Just looking at it made Rebecca begin to actually feel the fatigue that had seeped deep into her bones over the course of such an... utterly hellish day.

She removed her glasses and rubbed at the sore, red-tinged skin ringing around her tired eyes, ever so grateful to be alone at last. Replacing her glasses upon her face, she turned her attention to one corner of the room, where an antique writing desk and tufted leather chair sat—

Rebecca blinked in surprise. There was a woman sitting on the chair. A woman who certainly hadn't been there only a moment ago.

 

[Domri Rade]

Teleporting was not Domri’s favorite method of transportation. He figured that this game had some Izzet freaks to help with all of this fancy technology, it sickened him. Physically, sickened him. He wobbled off the platform, one arm leaning on Tusker for physical support. His stomach was churning and the room was spinning. Domri needed a moment to gather his wits.

“Hey, hold on Tusk,” he moaned, “I need to catch my breath.” He slapped his face with a burst of energy, trying to force the motion sickness away. “I hate those technological machines, why ruin what nature provides.”

A speaker in the corner of the room buzzed to life with static, “Attention contestants, your quarters are now open. Please use this time to relax before the fun begins.”

“Thank god,” Domri wheezed, “Come on, Tusker, let’s crash on their fancy beds.”

The beastmaster managed to calm his stomach on the walk to the barracks, which wasn’t easy to find. The large sprawling maps had too many words, making it hard to concentrate. Through a series of ‘guesses and checks’, he eventually came across a corridor with doors condensed together. He supposed this is what must’ve passed for a gathering hall in this alien place.

An attendant stopped Domri and Tusker as they attempted to walk through the hallway. “I’m sorry sir, but your pet isn’t allowed in the common area. Please let me take him to the stable to wait for the games.”

Tusker stomped and snorted, protesting the word pet. “Hey, relax. He didn’t know,” Domri petted the boar's nose soothingly. The beastmaster turned to the man and asserted, “Look, my pal and I are a package deal. Where he goes, I go.”

The assistant gave a sheepish smile, “I’m sorry sir, those are the rules. I assure you the stables are very well stocked. Your… “he tiled his head up to the oversized boar, “friend will be well-fed and pampered. The staff are very well trained.”

Tusker nudged Domri towards the hallway, startling him. “What the? What are you doing?”

The boar snorted and grunted.

“Oh? You hear food and our friendship suddenly means nothing?”

Tusker let out a low squeal and shook his head.

“I am not being dramatic! I thought we were a team.”

The boar whined back and nudged its face into Domri’s chest affectionately.

“I know, I know. You just know I’ll miss you,” he sighed. “Fine, eat your fill, okay? It better be worth it.” Domri slacked his head to the side and raised his voice towards the attendant, “Hey, you. Take him to where he can get his fill. It better be as good as you say, or else.”

The man gave a slight bow, “Of course. Only the best for the stars of our show.” The man quickly turned and began to stride away, leading Tusker away.

The beastmaster chuckled to himself, “Tusker really is a pig.” He could practically hear the boar's protests.

Each of the doors had the contestant's name placard on the door. Though Domri couldn’t read, he knew his name started with ‘D’. He walked past a series of doors and thankfully only one began with the letter D. The doorknob thankfully provided no resistance, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

His slight smile drooped as he entered the room. It was so… neat. The furniture was too white and a chemical smell stained the air. It vaguely smelled of lemons, though the scent entirely bastardized of its true source. Domri’s nose crinkled, the odor getting stronger the deeper he walked into the room. It didn’t take long to find the bed, an overly ornate piece of furniture. The pillows were probably filled with feathers. He didn’t care at this point, he flopped onto the bed, his body sinking in. It was surprisingly comfortable and smelled of lavender.

He chuckled to himself, “What won't people do to delude themselves? Chemicals will never beat the real thing.”

 

[John Connor]

Leonidas simply placed his Spartan helmet and cape on to hide his identity from any more people around the area as he moved toward the barracks, opening the doors.

He kept anything near him that he needed and searched for a door in the Barracks that said “L”,

There were various people in the barrack, different creatures and even a small blue creature in the refrigerator.

Leonidas had all the food he wanted at the moment since he had such a huge gathering of cheese and rare wine.

He didn’t say much as his “identity” was still concealed, moving toward the room with “L” on it and opening it, and sitting down on the feathery soft bed and moving his shield near the bedding area and stretching out on the fluffy bed for now until it was time to fight.

He sat on the bed, eying the room for the time being. It was calm for now. Too calm. Coming from war, you sort of expect something unexpected to show up and bother you.

 

[Gizmo Gear]

Travis Touchdown came to the barracks and when he did he could hear the sound of rushing water and a horrid smell. He then goes to see what appears to be a flood coming from the bathroom. He also noticed what appeared to be a blue dog thing, some kind of orc lady, and Shadow the freaking Hedgehog. His chances of winning seem to be lower and lower the more weird contestants he meets. He then sees that the bathroom is the source of the smell and dampness.

That's going to be a problem if he has to go relieve himself later. Especially since he had a large meal earlier so it would be inevitable.

"So is anyone going to take care of that? Anyone at all?" he asked.

With no one giving him an answer he just sighs and then goes to do it himself, he goes to a nearby janitor's closet to receive a plunger. He had some shitty jobs he had to do that weren't assassination to earn money to be able to do ranking fights against other assassins. Coconut collecting, lawn mowing, picking up trash, etc. Though this one was shitty, pun entirely intended. When he came inside it was a horrific sight and even one of the sinks was busted and flooding the room.

Travis then turned off the sinks before having to go to the toilet that is flooding the entire room. It smelled like someone didn't just put toilet paper in there. He used the plunger and eventually, he was able to fix the clog as it stopped. Still, the entire floor was soaked, he had a long day though and he was not going to clean the rest of this mess up. He set the plunger down and went to his room.

He finds the room with the initials TT on it goes inside and lays down on the bed. And lying down he begins to be thinking about his options. Should he kill Flak the first chance he gets? He doesn't know if he is that bad a dude. However, if Flak does get in his way and picks a fight with him things might change. Popeye is a cultural icon and he can't bring himself to kill such an icon.

As for Shadow the Hedgehog he is not sure if that guy can even die, canon or lore-wise. Like sure he can fall bottomless pits and die to enemies in the games. However, he is not sure when it comes to gameplay and story integration. Hell, there is also the fact Shadow has Rings that could protect him from damage if he has any that is.

He just hopes that he doesn't have to run into either of those three cause they seem to be the most dangerous. And then there's the guy with the stitches, can't remember if he got his name. He is suspicious of him and that foreboding feeling he never felt before. This is starting to get excited, but he has to keep his bloodlust boner in check. Don't want to kill someone he'll regret later again.

 

[Elise]

All at once, there came a loud 'ding' from a nearby elevator.

An extremely unhappy group of thugs wearing dusky-red armor piled out of the freight lift, and wheeled along what could only be described as a large black refrigerator. They made no remark on the soggy red carpet, or on the half-naked or otherwise arguing contestants languishing in the various corners of this level. On the surface of the large metal cylinder was written the simple phrase:

CONTESTANT #19

The team silently wheeled the containment unit down the hall to the matching barracks room, set the load down, and made their exit as quickly as they had entered...though two of them remained to watch guard over Number Nineteen's quarters. From the looks of it, they'd been through a bit of an incident.

 

[Karl Jak]

Kevin sat in a small room.

While he understood that time had moved on for the rest of the Crossroads, it felt as if he had just been sitting in a room not unlike this one a few days ago. From his mottled neck, a new collar rested snuggly against his bruised and partially swollen flesh. For whatever reason, he swore that these itched a little, and just as soon as he recalled that thought, he remembered that his skin was dead.

His eyes wandered to the clock. When did this phase of the contest end? How long had he been sitting here in this room? Had he been anywhere else between this point and the registration booth?

“I’m sure I would know,” he muttered aloud in a scraggly voice that was still somewhat foreign to his ears. Would he ever quite get over that? It was bad enough to have to look at himself in the mirror, but the fact that his voice was ever so slightly … off seemed to be the worst part of this ‘experience.’

His eyes fell to the documents on the bed around him. When did he gather these?

He scooped one of them up into his hand and held it up to his face. It was the logistics of the event as laid out for competitors. Despite not recalling it, the reanimated PA must have taken these on his way over to this part of the facility. In wet red crayon (or was that blood?), Kevin had circled a sentence that mentioned the task was not to kill everyone but instead to navigate some unknown threat. In the margins, he had scribbled ‘Like DA VII or X.’

“I died in that one too,” Kevin muttered as memories of his arrival in the Crossroads came to mind.

Setting down the pamphlet, the PA hunched forward slipped into a mild fugue state as he stared at the door to the small room.

 

[King Shark]

It was unsettling to look around the common room. It was hard to pinpoint why, exactly. His work on the plumbing had scratched an itch, sure, but it hadn’t filled the void. Hadn’t quenched the thirst. There was still that feeling like someone kept jerking the stylus off the spinning record when he just wanted to finish the song.

Life, varied and myriad, had begun to fill the common room and creature comforts arose about the space carried on the same wind as the contestants that sought them. Television, doors opening and shutting, folks chatting about things that felt like something but probably meant nothing. He could hear them, mostly in the Common tongue, which wasn’t his native but was not foreign to him either. It was making Stitch feel restless and irritable.

He started down the hallway towards his room, which he recognized as a retreat response. All the pleasantry and pageantry made his skin feel like crawling ants.

The problem at hand, Stitch’s big problem, was a lack of resources, he realized. He could bust up a toilet, or set off a sprinkler system, or trip a motherfucker when they ambled past him, or shit in the coffee pot, but none of those things scratched the big itch. And the big itch needed to be scratched!

He usually used guns, plasma blasters in particular, as the backscratcher. Popping a hole in a fuel tank and watching things go ‘boom’; now that scratched the itch. But he’d been long without a pair of spicy goo cannons, and he wasn’t sure when he’d feel his finger on a trigger again. There had been no mention of weapons, so far, as far as he had heard.

Weapons were really his ace. He wasn’t a demolitions expert or anything, but he’d logged some years in the battlefield industry, and knew his way around causing some damage. Plow a truck into the right support beam and you could spill a building like a jenga tower without so much as the pump of a C4 detonator. Therein lied his strength.

When it came to combat, could he hold his own? Sure. When it came to the basics, you just had to strike, block, and evade better than somebody else; or make the first move, or get lucky. The key was in being proactive, absolutely fucking recklessly proactive, and dealing with the consequences later. That’s where luck came in. His ‘X’ factor. He lost more fights than he won, generally, but here he was, still alive. Still kicking.

Unlike her. Stitch wasn’t sure if she was still alive or kicking, which hurt to think about. It made him want to blow some shit up. How long had it been since he’d found her? That had been a stroke of luck. How long had it been since he’d lost her? A different kind of luck. Bad luck. The kind of luck that threw a girl’s dog through a portal, and kept him away for thirty years with no way home. The kind of luck that made Stitch regress into a bad dog.

He shook the thought with a visible shudder. It hurt to think about that little girl. It felt like a distant memory, something far away that felt like it had happened to someone he had watched, not been.

When Experiment 626 reached the door to his quarters and reached a blue paw-hand up to the handle, he froze, feeling a flash of irritation. What was he doing, anyway? Getting driven back by the affronting forces of united society? Already?

Loser’s attitude right out of the gate. If he let them push him back now, then Big Society won. Where was the moxy? The determination? The absolute commitment to fucking shit up?

He grumbled, turned from the door, crawled on all sixes back down the hallway, almost bumped into some woman’s shins, wove in between them, then re-emerged into the common room.

“Let’s get weird!” he croaked loudly, his voice sounding to the Common language as a parrot’s does to its mimicry.

He undid the top three buttons on his jumper, showed some chest, and grinned a toothy and horrific display of a too-wide mouth full of canines.

There was a lot of noise, which was good, because he wanted to create a veritable cacophony.

There was a stretch of floor, then there was Shadow, who leaned against a wall the color of mocha, with his foot kicked up like the cool kid skipping class to crush a dart against the brick wall by the playground.

Past him, there stood a monument to disruption. A big ol’ stereo system, the sort that was bookended between two speakers thrice as tall and double the width of Stitch himself.

He moved quickly, fast like a spider, then rolled up to open the glass display of the stereo. He pushed a button he recognized as being the universal size of a button that would spur a machine to life. Then he started cranking up the knobs, dials, and levers. Things became loud. Jazz music, universally lauded as the music language of chaos, erupted from the speakers. Stitch began to snap his fingers.

Bipedal, he began to swoon his hips, and roll his shoulders. He slid two paces left, then two to the right, all the while snapping with four hands. He was really grooving. He bobbed his head, antennae swinging, and started to get really into his moment.

It made him feel a little less itchy.

Shadow the Hedgehog watched the other experiment with a mixture of muted disgust and edgelord’s curiosity.

Stitch flashed him a wink.

Other contestants ran the orchestral gamut of emotion, with expressions holding notes of irritation, concern, indifference, and enthusiasm.

Despite them, Stitch continued to dance.

 

[John Connor]

With a deep breath, he drew his gaze away from the ceiling and took a decisive step forward, steeling himself against the doubts that threatened to gnaw at his resolve. For a Spartan, hesitation was akin to defeat, and Leonidas was not one to back down from a challenge.
"Spartans," he uttered under his breath, a quiet prayer to the gods for their continued protection and guidance. "I will not disappoint you. This I vow."

Instead of a palace, a “palace” of walls, luxury and food surrounded him. His brothers watched over him in spirit even though they were not around to cheer him on.

"I will not disappoint you," he whispered again, his voice echoing in the quiet confines of the palace. "This I vow, by the gods and by the honor of Sparta."
With renewed determination, Leonidas squared his shoulders and marched onward, each step resonating with the conviction of his promise. He was a Spartan, a king, and a leader, and he would see this through to the very end.

Leonidas' once-quiet determination erupted into a fierce roar, his voice thundering through the halls of the palace with the rage of a wounded animal. "Apollo," he bellowed, his fist striking the air in a violent gesture, "I will find you! And I will make you pay for your deceit, for your betrayal of Sparta!"
His voice echoed back to him, a mocking reminder of his impotence in the face of the gods. But Leonidas was not one to be cowed by such things. Instead, his fury burned even hotter, a raging inferno of vengeful passion that consumed his entire being.
With each passing moment, Leonidas felt his resolve hardening like iron, his anger forging his will into a single-minded purpose. He was a Spartan, a warrior, and he would not rest until the god responsible for his people's suffering had paid the price for his hubris.

"By the blood of my ancestors, I swear it," Leonidas intoned, his words becoming a solemn oath of vengeance. "You will not escape my wrath, Apollo. For Sparta. For my brothers. For the honor of all that is right and just."

 

[Jim Raynor]

Buu couldn’t repress his grin. So many strong competitors filled the barracks! He balled his fists to stop them from twitching. He knew he couldn’t attack them yet or he would be disqualified. Even still, his child-like excitement was hard to contain. To stop himself from lashing out in joy, Buu strode up and down the common area, humming loudly and pumping his arms.

As much as he wanted to start the competition now, he couldn’t disappoint Babidi. He knew the sealing spell to put Buu back in his ball. If he got upset, that’s where Buu would go back to. He didn’t want that. He had almost forgotten what it was like to be free. No way would he jeopardise that now.

Besides, as hard as waiting was, there was at least the silver lining of the anticipatory excitement, that thrill that only appeared when something amazing was on the horizon. Still, Buu’s lively amble through the barracks eventually grew boring. He remembered the steel ring affixed around his neck and almost pulled it off, but quickly stopped himself. The competition would be over for him if he did that.

“Just leave it,” Buu said to himself confidently, giving a sharp nod.

The Majin left the common area and found his designated room. Closing the door behind him, he made his way to the bed and lied down. It was comfy!

“Eh, Buu too excited to sleep,” Buu murmured to himself. “Maybe Buu could…”

In moments the pink creature dozed off, a large bubble expanding from his nose that inflated and deflated in time with his breath.

 

[Rebecca Chambers]

The swivel chair spun around smoothly, revealing the interloper's face in the dim, flickering light of the electric lamps.

Her hair was a severe blonde ponytail pulled tight against her skull, the wispy fringes framing either side of her face emphasizing the pale pallor of her skin and her sharp, crafty features. Keen icy blue eyes met Rebecca's stare, cutting her to the bone with an intensity that was almost arresting. Dressed in a crisp red-and-black military uniform that clung to her slim figure, every golden button and crease exuding control and authority, the woman seemed to govern the room without even trying.

Rebecca's heart skipped a beat as her eyes landed upon the unfamiliar woman. She stiffened, inadvertently shifting backwards, one of her heels hitting the door at her back. Who was this, and why was she here, in her private quarters? Surely for legitimate reasons. Right?

Right?

"Excuse me," Rebecca started to say, adjusting the black frames of her glasses with a nervous fidget. "I think I might have the wrong room. Or maybe you have the wrong room? Either way, something's amiss, and while I'd ordinarily be pleased to make your acquaintance, whoever you are, I'm not exactly in the mood for—"

The woman stood up with a stiff-shouldered exactness and gracefully bent at the waist, slightly dipping her head.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran," she introduced herself with a crisp British accent, her voice as sharp and precise as a blade. Her eyes flitted up to meet Rebecca's own, a very faint, sly smile curving on her lips. "And you must be Dr. Chambers. Pardon the intrusion on your private time before the festivities, doctor. I'm here on behalf of my employer, and I prefer to talk business with... as few complications present as possible."

Rebecca cocked an eyebrow, thoughts racing as she attempted to make sense of this piece of information. She had zero knowledge of a Colonel Moran and was completely in the dark about who this... employer could possibly be.

However, one thing was evident—this woman was likely not someone to be underestimated. She certainly seemed to know some things about Rebecca, in any case.

"Your... employer?" asked Rebecca, her face clearly conveying her disbelief.

A faint note of pride appeared on Colonel Moran's face, her expression flickering with amusement. She straightened, idly smoothing her uniform. "Trust me, you will learn in due time, Dr. Chambers. But for now, I am here to relay a message."

She paused, adjusting the silken white gloves on her hands, affecting an air of calculated distraction, before continuing to speak.

"My employer, Dr. Chambers, is aware of your most recent advancements in the study of a certain strain of mold on Kraw," she spoke, her voice dropping to a more intimate register. "They are... quite pleased with your accomplishments. Captivated, even. And I cannot stress enough that my employer is a very difficult individual to captivate."

Narrowing her eyes, Rebecca folded her arms tightly across her chest. She had spent countless hours studying a newly discovered strain of mold, sure, all thanks to the help of an intrepid hunter who had braved the depths of the jungle to procure it. But that didn't shed much light on why Moran was here, speaking to her with such... secrecy.

"I suppose I'm flattered. But how is this relevant now?" the brown-haired woman wondered aloud, tilting her head to the side. "If you can't tell, this is far from a convenient time to talk shop."

Moran's smile widened, exposing her teeth. It wasn't a particularly warm look.

"Ah, I see," she said softly. So softly, in fact, that Rebecca almost suspected there might be another in the room with them Moran was seeking to gossip about—but no, no. They were quite alone. "I comprehend your situation entirely, doctor. My employer is also aware of it. This predicament is... not something you have chosen for yourself, and now you are left to navigate through enemy territory, surrounded by unfamiliar figures and potential foes from every quarter. A sorry plight, indeed."

Rebecca frowned. "...I'm sensing a 'but,' here."

"You are correct," Moran admitted, her mirth dimming. She leaned forward somewhat, her blue eyes boring into Rebecca's own with an eerie intensity. "My purpose here is to support you, doctor. I will be your ally in this contest, with no hidden motives... at least during the competition. After, my employer will require your expertise for a very special project."

Well, that isn't sketchy at all, thought Rebecca dryly.

Her gut told her that something was off, here, and she shifted uneasily—her booted feet scraping against the polished floor. Briefly, the medic's eyes darted around the room before landing on the desk at Colonel Moran's back—and then her lips parted in shock, marveling at the plethora of equipment scattered across it.

It was her stuff! Health sprays. Syringes. Pill bottles! All cluttering the table, but still sorted into neat rows. There was even a spare set of clothing similar to her current field wear: a white bulletproof vest with an olive green undershirt folded beneath it, paired with cargo capris in the same shade.

"That's my stuff," stated Rebecca, blinking.

Glancing behind herself at the selection of supplies, Colonel Moran nodded.

"I knew you would be ill-equipped, considering your sudden departure," she stated with a nonchalant manner, shrugging her shoulders. "I took the liberty of requisitioning some necessities from your lab. I trust this is... acceptable?"

Walking over to stand beside Moran, Rebecca delicately plucked up a small bottle of pills, rotating it to read the label.

A smile touched at the corner of her mouth, the tiniest bit of sunlight breaking through her gloomy mood. She nodded slowly. "Yeah, this is... Thank you. I... I would say I don't know how to repay you, but..."

Her words trailed off, her brows furrowing in thought. She hesitated, chewing at the soft inner lining of her cheek as she mulled it over.

Meanwhile, Moran merely stood and observed, patient and visibly unbothered.

"...Alright," Rebecca said at last, her shoulders sagging a little. But her green-eyed gaze flashed up a beat later, sparkling with a renewed energy. "I'll help you and your employer, once this is all over and done with. But only if it's nothing... kooky."

"'Kooky,'" Moran repeated, as if pronouncing a foreign word, blinking slowly. She lightly shook her head. "Of course, doctor. Nothing of the sort. Now, why don't you go and get some rest? You'll need it for what lies ahead, I imagine."

With that, she made her way towards the door, her strides long, measured. As she approached the threshold, though, she turned to face Rebecca with a significant, unblinking stare.

"Remember," began Moran, her tone all... chummy, now that she had her way. Her eyes gleamed with a secretive little glimmer. "You're not alone in this."

And then she was gone, the door shutting with a faint click behind her, leaving Rebecca standing alone in the wavering light of the opulent chamber. The contrast between her muddy lab coat and sweaty clothes and the luxurious decor surrounding her was stark. She felt out of place, a disheveled, rumpled scientist amidst sumptuous gilt and polish.

Slowly, she made her way to the edge of the bed and sat down. A heavy sigh puffing from her chest, she dragged a hand down the side of her face, her eyes clenching shut.

What a nightmare.

 

[Mollymauk Tealeaf]

It had started simple enough. Wunya walked over to the stereo, turned it to an appropriate volume, and explained to the blue dog it was a common room and not their room. When her back was turned however, the volume went back up, this time louder. The Coach calmly looked at the large black eyes and droopy ears of the creature who stared back at her with a blank expression. She turned down the dial on the volume again, this time staying there and crossing her arms, showing no emotion back to the blue being maybe one-tenth her own size.

Things escalated from there, as Stitch with his still blank stare matching hers and locked in one another's gaze, casually reached up and turned it back up without breaking eye-contact.

“Ha! So little blue dog thinks this thing a game? Well, I turn it back down,” Wunya announced, and by golly she was as good as her word, turning it down.

“Nooo, big green lady thinks this game. volume UP”, the blue experiment retorted and was good to his word as well.

“Stop it,” Wunya said in her quiet, demanding tone, but her arms were uncrossed and on her hips, her legs slowly moving into a stance.

“YOU stop it,” Stitch shot back in his rebellious deep and guttural squeak-toy cadence of mischief and mayhem.

Within a minute of back and forth banter, neither being a being with a gift for gab, It snowballed into hand-smacking and dial-turning as the screech of trumpets, drums, and trombones blared and went silent - their scuffle creating a kerfuffle of some sort of new-age jazz remix in all its chaotic beauty. Only when Stitch decided to pounce towards Coach Wunya’s head, did it go from a scuffle to scrap.

“Feeboogoo!” Stitch cried as his four arms tried to reach out to pull at the hair of Wunya, she had luckily caught him in the air, reflexes always ready, before he was able to sink the talons in and rip it from the roots. As the impossibly strong Experiment 626 tried to free himself from the perfect form of the Coaches vice-like grip, it caused them to swing around like she was warming up to shotput a bowling ball.

“You speak nonsense words!” Wunya said, a little too loud in her exasperation and she tried to reel it back in, with growing difficulty. How had this little creature got her to break her own composure so well. Was this one his powers? She tried to toss him away, but they somehow ended up being tripped by the couch, both going for a tumble.

They both bounced back up from across the couch, one at each end, and glared as they circled around it. Wunya was even tall enough to see the diminutive creature as he went around the back, both waitIng for the moment to strike as the jazz ... .suddenly stopped.

Well, that’s all the time we have for tonight, join us tomorrow night on ‘Jazzin’ around the Crossroads’, I'm your host, Sonny Blizabeth and keep listening as we dive into the ‘Moldy Oldies’, the hottest classic hits from all your original universes…

They kept circling as the new host of ‘Moldy Oldies’ got settled and then he put on a new track and everything changed.

A sweet, deep-symphony all rolled into a single melodic and bassy voice came from the radio, tangy and thick with a memphis twang. As the first lines started, Stitch immediately turned to the radio, completely forgetting Wunya. His ears dropped, almost folding down completely to his sides as the spines on his back seemed to follow suit. Experiment 626 walked to the radio, in a daze as Elvis played on through the speakers. He was galaxies away and decades back in time, dancing in hula skirts and dressing up as The King himself, ukulele in hands…he only used two in those days…in those better better days, with Lilo.

Stitch felt something cold on his shoulder, and having the feral knocked out of him for a moment, he looked at it instead of immediately attacking. A beer was resting there, the neck of the bottle held between two massive fingers of the large half-orc woman. She nodded towards the kitchen where some more were set on the counter-top already.

Time had passed as the empty bottles lined around the sink and linoleum of the counter like soldiers on a map. Stitch was kicking his little legs high off the ground, holding his current beer with four paws as Wunya leaned against the kitchen wall as they talked.

Unfortunately, they were only permitted light beer, and for different physiological reasons, were getting more hydrated than drunk.

“...Ohana. It means family, and family means nobody gets left behind,” Stitch said, kicking those blue, adorable, furry little paws and banging them gently against the kitchen drawer under him.

“You will do this thing. You will find your way back. You have heart of a Champion. Everyone I knew, poof. This thing, it happens. Believe in what you want to be true, run in that direction and fail trying to make it true. Sometimes thing like Death Game come along for us to enjoy while trying. Bright side…It will be a fun time, at the very least,” Wunya said, patting him on the back lightly, avoiding the spines. “Shall we call the host of this ‘Moldy Oldies’ again and threaten if he does not play your ‘King Elvis’ once more before I go to bed?”

“YeahYeahYeah,” Stitch replied eagerly, and bobbed his head, throwing the empty beer bottle over his shoulder to smash against the tile patterned wall behind him .

 

[Sigmund Vrell]

Mahito sat on his bed, cradling his face in his hands. With a low groan, he began to slowly drag them down, slightly stretching his face as they traveled from his forehead to his chin. He was just so

damn

BORED!

Clearly, the Carnivale wanted him to be doing normal people things. Like eating copious amounts of food and shitting it out later. Or karaoke. Either that or they knew that he wasn’t the type to do anything of the sort and they simply didn’t care, expecting him to just sit around and do nothing instead.

But the curse didn’t want to eat, shit or sing! And he definitely didn’t want to do nothing. He wanted to kill people, to maim and torment to his heart’s content. As far as Mahito was concerned, a world where he couldn’t indulge every sociopathic impulse was one that may as well not exist.

But it did, unfortunately, and he wasn’t going to be seeing any change anytime soon.

“Well, if you can’t do, plot… I guess...” he groaned as he practically rolled off of his bed and approached the door to his room. Mahito had decided that his display in front of the small group at the station was too much of a spoiler and wanted to do his best to keep everyone in the dark until the show began. To this end, he stayed in his chambers, though he couldn’t help himself from scoping out the competition.

Opening his door just a crack, Mahito peered curiously outside, taking in the scene of his fellow contestants walking by. Muscle-heads , weird little creatures, men and women from all walks of life. The curse watched curiously as they mingled amongst one another before the advent of what was likely to be their deaths (if he had anything to say about it, at any rate). They were bonding! Bonding! The stitch-faced man would have hardly believed it had he been any other curse.

But he was the curse of humanity, he knew them. He knew that they would struggle and bite and throw one another under the bus to save themselves if it came to it. Most of them would deny it, of course, but it was inevitable. Mahito could relate, just a little. After all, he wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice one of them to save his own skin. The denial got a little annoying after a while, but whatever. He would stress-test those bonds ‘til they broke, and if they somehow didn’t, well…

Maybe they’d make a good soul isomer.

Grinning sadistically, Mahito closed the door and slipped back into the confines of his room, passing the time by dreaming up all the ways he was going to make the lives out there absolutely miserable!