V M #LateStageCapitalism (NPC Horror Comedy Story)

[Mickey Mouse]

A tumbleweed rolled through Tartarus Mining Facility.

...or, at least, it would have, had the mining facility been located on any planet besides the rotating hellscape that was Inverxe.

Deep beneath the snow, after a veritable maze of laboriously dug tunnels, the iron-and-steel structure of this relic of capitalism past climbed up the walls of a particularly spacious cavern. Years of neglect meant that the metallic framing was now mostly structurally unsound, rust creeping in with age and with melted ice that slipped through the planet’s surface. Billboards hung lazily on walls decades before now were ripped and torn and often drooped to one side, messages like “Keep going!” and “Unions hurt worker individuality!” losing their luster.

A man in a long, black trench-coat took this scene in. It was perfect.

“Sir,” his cybernetic assistant droned, “my calculations have deemed this particular subset of Inverxe’s interior uninhabitable for organic life, simply based off the structural integrity of the rock walls. In addition, most research states the abandoned parts of these caverns hold the most potential for violent predator encounters.”

Trench Coat nodded along, simply letting out a “Mhm.” Those reasons were exactly why he felt so compelled to have his challenge here. Y’see, he was searching for a Champion. Someone to carry on when their predecessor could no longer function, yes, but also someone who could truly breathe new life into the brand, someone who could truly lift his company up to the next level. He’d been through casual interviews before, been through all sorts of people who seemed like they’d be a good fit for the job and then routinely failed. None of them, he knew, would’ve been able to last in the gauntlet of horrors he was about to throw the new candidates into.

The only true way to figure out if someone was going to last was to see if they would last in the worst possible circumstances. Survival of the fittest. Inverxe was an important spot in his business empire, and although he doubted his future mascot would be required to do much work beneath the surface, it seemed as good a place as any to whittle down the competition.

“Sir,” the cyborg nearby piped up once again, “it is my strong recommendation that we leave this place, and that nothing living attempts to exist down here for longer than an hour or so.”

“Noted,” Trench Coat waved a hand. “I’ll be taking approximately half of that recommendation.”

The metals of the lift from the surface lurched behind him. Ah. The first of the competitors were on their way down, then, which meant it was his cue to get the fuck out of dodge. He checked his watch; about time, too. It wouldn’t be long before the horrors of Inverxe undoubtedly made themselves known.

“Robot,” he snapped his fingers, waving the cyborg over. “Get us out of here.” The bot, without protesting, strode over to its owner. Trench Coat placed a hand on the robot’s shoulder and as quickly as he’d snapped his fingers, the pair disappeared.

The lift lurched again as the first of them finally descended into view.

And deep within the cave, something awoke.

Spoiler

Welcome to the beginning of your laid back Horror Comedy NPC journey, the Tartarus Mining Facility. Buried relatively deep within Inverxe and accessible either through a (pretty shitty) lift or a series of tunnels, feel free to decide how your character arrives.

Once again, your character should be some perversion of a shitty corporate mascot who's come to the mining facility on personal invitation from a mysterious benefactor looking to hire a new public relations representative for his vaguely-described corporate empire. With instructions that vague, I imagine your character is pretty desperate for work.

You have until Sunday at NOON EST to post an IC entrance post, at which point entrance into the interview process will be locked. Following your entrance post, in a Spoiler Tag please fill out the following form:

Character Name --
Any Relevant (Or Irrelevant) Abilities --
Why They Want This Job -- (three sentences or less, please.)
Dumb Tagline -- (yeah, you don't know what the product is. Guess!)

After noon hits, I'll be posting an update starting the interview proper. Then, every FRIDAY AT NOON EST, I will open up voting for who is 'eliminated.' You may PM me your votes between Friday at noon and Sunday at noon, and then voting will be closed and I will write an update killing off eliminating a character.

But don't worry, there's still ways to play when you're eliminated if you so choose...

This will go on for six to eight weeks, depending on scheduling things hitherto not solidified yet.

The most important thing is to have fun! This is supposed to be silly and relaxing so have a blast. Post as much or as little as you want, both frequency-wise and word count-wise. Just take a chill pill after the intenseness that was Dante's Abyss. We all got some angst out, now just fuck around.

Thanks y'all!
Jacob

 

[Yuuka Kazami]

He slammed his glass of cheap beer on the bar with a hiccuping sob.

"I-it's... It's just not fair! That... That tarted up robo-hussy doesn't know the first thing about pizza... or customer service!"

The lapin-esque man cradled his teardrop-shaped head in his arms, shrieking a torrent of rage about one Hatsune Miku. The bitch who had taken his job. He had precious little coin left to his name after he'd been fired to make room for the new, sexier Domino's Pizza mascot, and his plan was to spend every last one of them on alcohol as soon as possible. Tomorrow be damned, if his life ended tonight, he'd be in a better place than how he'd be living at this rate-

A stranger bumped into him as they passed. He whirled around in his chair, ready to take out his fury on them too- but by the time he did, they had sunk back into the crowd. His ears deflated, but as he turned back to the bar to rest in his hands again, he saw it. A sheet of white paper. On it, black text.

MASCOTS WANTED FOR CORPORATE PROJECT.

We are looking for experienced mascot talent for an upcoming project. Interviews will be taking place on XX/XX/2020, at XX.XXXX:YY.YYYY on Inverxe. Transportation will not be provided. Potential hires will be expected to have clear schedules for future contract work in the immediate future...

He sniffled, wiping his tears and nose on his jumpsuit.

Maybe... Just maybe... There was more to life for him.

--

The last couple hundred coin he'd had, he spent on the trip to Inverxe the very next morning. He hadn't expected the brutal cold of the planet, and so he had crafted a thick cloak of used pizza boxes, some of his few remaining worldly possessions, around himself to stay warm. It was a wretched image. He looked like a moving pile of trash, or at best a lost derelict who had somehow found himself in an icy hell. Not a great addition for a man who already somehow looked like a racist caricature of a race that didn't even exist.

He trudged through snow that was waist deep to him, armed with only his trusty yo-yo (his pizza crushers and steamrollers had long since been auctioned off to pay his drinking debts) to defend against the monsters on the surface. Now he didn't mind cold pizza, but this was ridiculous! A hundred times he considered turning back, but then he remembered there was nowhere else for him to go. So he pressed on.

But somehow, despite all the despair the world had out for him, he made it to the mine in one piece.

Well, this was the place... According to the coordinates at least. What kinda gig was this, some sort of... digging equipment company? His ears stood on end as he stepped onto the lift down, echoes of feet on metal and shifting rocks below hearkening a new and ominous chapter of his life.

Please, god, let it be a short one...

Spoiler

Character Name -- The Noid
Any Relevant (Or Irrelevant) Abilities -- Analogue Dabbing, Skill with construction equipment, Yo-yo that can be used for any suitable comedic hijinks
Why They Want This Job -- Desperation.
Dumb Tagline -- "If you buy from any other company, you'll realize their products are a... pizza shit!"

 

[Jak]

Who knew cats could sing right? This cat did. He was at the latest cat raves, had the best in catnip and was living the best life. He even had Meow mix brand cat food, the best he could have.

Well except for that one gig..

The cat felt there was more to life then the latest cat raves, the cat ladies and the best catnip money could buy.

His owner had mysteriously ‘disappeared”, leaving him with the chunk of inheritance the owner would have otherwise gotten if he was still there.

The abandoned tomcat slinked his tail, pulling his unplugged dj headphones, his microphone that echoed and one bag of the best catnip the money could buy. After all, what’s a cat without his drugs?

It’s when the cat rolled the paper with his catnip, did he hear the television advertise

“Looking for a corporate mascot with experience, will pay in cash and perhaps more..”

The former Meow Mix disregarded corporate cat swayed his tail in relief.

Meow mew meow meow (Think of all the dough i could get)

His fur was mangled and a bit rough for wear considering he went through a lot to get to this mine in one piece. (Just like that one cat from Homeward bound, people)

Anyways, he made it with the little coin he had left and looked up with sad eyes. Gotta play the part, right?

Meow, mew? (Is this the corporate sponsorship I was looking for?)

Spoiler

Character Name --Meow the “Meow Mix” cat
Any Relevant (Or Irrelevant) Abilities -- Laser eyes that blow things up, Loud cat singing that makes people’s ears ring, clawing people’s faces, acting absolutely cute.
Why They Want This Job -- Got tired of Nightclub raves with catnip, eating the same food every day
Dumb Tagline -- Meow, freaking Meow Mow meow (Man, I crave this mix.)

 

[Mickey Mouse]

Progress (noun): forward or onward movement towards a destination.

Google that shit, that’s what it says.

Or you can take my word for it, cause I should fuckin’ know. I’m all about keeping things moving. Back in the day, I used to make sure people had ways to get around. It wasn’t just my job. It was my fuckin’ passion. I was lit as all hell about making sure folx knew exactly how they were gonna get somewhere and how they’d manage it if option numero uno fell through. I felt damn good about it, too. People looked to me for… for… well I’ve almost forgot what it was called. Somethin’ like… Hope, maybe? Yeah, that was it.

Of course, time rolls on, and people either roll with it or they fall behind. I fell behind. My progress was never certain, no one’s is, and soon my smilin’ face just wasn’t what they were lookin’ for anymore. They needed someone big and bad and scary, someone who’d march in with some unmarked military troops to defend your goddamn right to barbecue. I wasn’t fit for that world, not how I used to be.

But cousin-fuckin’ hell, I tried. I liked the new look. Tradin’ in my pristine white dress for the finest, roughest Kraw raptor skin shawl I could find. Dressin’ up in fatigues like I was truly somethin’. Sure, I may have painted them white… it’s my trademark. But it’s a new look. I’m a new woman. Y’know, eventually, even ol’ Flo found her way around a rocket launcher and a semi auto -- to tell the truth, it wasn’t too hard. There’s a trigger, and you gotta be sure you’re ready for the kickback. And I ain’t just talkin’ about the physical kickback, ya buncha fuckin’ geckos. I ain’t interested in savin’ 50% or more, I’m interested in bein’ able to save my whole damn self.

And Lordy, let me tell you… my whole damn self is in pretty deep shit right now. My soul, I mean. I’ve been tryin’ my best to ensure my own survival as well as others’, but the market ain’t what it used to be. Everybody in the goddamn Crossroads is all up in each others’ business askin’ about security, and what do I do next to a goddamn 25-foot tall robot? Or someone that can sweat nitroglycerin? Or a ginormous fuckin’ bird-dragon, huh?

They don’t teach ya how to fight back against that shit where I come from.

But I’m a resourceful gal. Always have been, always will be, and that’s where these motherfuckers got me twisted. They think I’m gonna just lay down and die but I’ve had my ear to the floor since I fell off the wagon, and that’s why the second I heard about this shit I had to get myself to Inverxe to see it through.

I’d found my way into the arms of a semi-auto but ain’t found my way to a purpose yet, and what the fuck does some raptor hide armor do if this girl ain’t got no reason for livin’, huh? I didn’t throw my troubles down a bottle, no way. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t been livin’ a lie tryin’ to pretend I was happy for years now. Y’see, I stopped makin’ progress, and goddammit: Flo can’t be caught doin’ that dance. Or not doin’ that dance, as it were.

With my rocket launcher strapped across my back and my semi-auto hangin’ from my belt I made my way through the shallow tunnels into that godforsaken mining facility and feasted my eyes on the two suckers who’d already shown up. It wasn’t exactly a likely place for an interview -- especially not one that was gonna help me get back to my old, clean, smiley corporate life -- but it was one that I, in particular, was prepared for, as evidenced by the fact that neither of these motherfuckers had spotted the tiny xenomorph creepin’ up on ‘em.

I lifted my semi and pumped that thing full of bullets before it could get within ten feet of the cat and the ugly dude; the second the noise hit their ears, the pair turned to see little ol’ me behind the trigger, a little grin on my features for the first time in what felt like years.

“Don’t worry,” I shrugged, “you’re insured, bitches.”

Spoiler

Character Name -- Flo the Progressive Lady
Any Relevant (Or Irrelevant) Abilities -- A rocket launcher, a semi-automatic machine gun, and a killer smile (when she feels compelled to use it).
Why They Want This Job -- Purpose.
Dumb Tagline -- Clearly: “You’re insured, bitch(es).”

 

[Arthur Morgan]

EXT. FOREST - DAY

LUCKY THE LEPRECHAUN stands on a well-trodden dirt path. On either side of the path is a dense forest, peaceful and brimming with birdsong. Beside him sits an enormous box of LUCKY CHARMS, nearly as tall as he is.

KIDS
(distantly)
Look, there he is!​

Lucky startles, looking over his shoulder. A horde of kids clambers over the hill behind him, running down the path. Lucky scoops the box of Lucky Charms into his arms.

LUCKY
(gasp)
Uh-oh! Those kids are after me Lucky Charms!​

Lucky starts to run, careering full-speed toward a waiting hot air balloon--

“Wait a sec,” said Lucky, squinting at the script clutched in his hands as realization dawned on him. He gave it an increasingly sour look, glancing up from inside the recording studio to glare at the scriptwriter. “The kids are chasing me? Again?”

The scriptwriter, a tall white dude with a balding head of gray hair and glasses, glanced up at him from behind the sturdy pane of glass separating the studio and the control room. His voice was nasally when he spoke, like a kazoo stuffed with cotton balls. “Uh, yeah. Why, you got a problem with that?”

Lucky stared daggers at Thompson, hands planted firmly on his hips. “Actually, Thompson, I do. It’s getting really fucking annoying that every time I’m getting chased by these kids because they want to steal my ‘treasure’. That’s such a harmful stereotype for my people, we don’t all have piles of gold hidden everywhere, otherwise I wouldn’t be here! I’m getting accosted on the street because of it! And that phony ‘oh no me Lucky Charms!’ shit has got to stop. I get that that’s like, my catchphrase, but it’s actually kind of... offensive.”

“No way!” Thompson shot to his feet, face a burning red. “You absolutely talk like that, I literally wrote down exactly how you sound. You can’t be mad about that.”

“No… I really don’t sound like that, and I have every right to be mad,” said Lucky, sighing. “Really, Thompson, we’ve talked about this. I don’t want to be reinforcing these stereotypes anymore. My parents really don’t like the whole voice thing you all ask me to do and my sister says--”

Thompson cut him off with a harsh snort. “Yeah? Well, I’m sure there’s plenty of other little people out there who would be more than happy to take your job! Maybe now you can go do your stupid LARP shit all day, Sir Charms.”

‘Little people?’ Lucky mouthed to himself, both eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, eyes narrowing dangerously. “You can’t be serious. I’ve had this job for fifty seven years!”

“Ohhhh, I’m dead serious, Lucky. You need to get out of here,” the gray-headed man sneered, pointing to the door. “I’m not dealing with any of this ‘PC’ bullshit anymore. You know, it was fine when you only brought it up every once in a while. We could all overlook that and just keep doing our thing, because we thought you were joking around, trying to be hip for the kiddos. But this… this is the last fucking straw, man.”

“Fine. Fine! I’m out of here.”

The red-headed leprechaun snatched up his vibrant shamrock green coat from his chair, already storming out of the recording area and into the control room. Just as he was about to depart, though, he paused at the door, whirling around to face Thompson with a scowl.

“Fuck. You.”

And with that, the door slammed shut behind him.

***​

Staring at the envelope in his hands, Lucky almost couldn’t believe it. After six months of searching and searching for a job, scouring hundreds of job sites and reaching out to every connection he’d ever made in the mascot biz, it was finally here. The opportunity he’d been praying for.

It was… a pretty vague job ad, all things considered. But it was personally addressed to him, so that had to be a good sign. If they’d bothered to look him up and find out his home address, then, well… that must mean they really wanted to hire him!

A grin splitting his cheerful little face, Lucky scrambled to scribble out a response, swiping aside a pile of bills to find his trusty legal pad. He paused, though, upon noticing the old concept he had sketched on the front page: an outfit he’d been planning for his beloved larp character, Sir Charms.

Slowly, an idea began to form, one that was sure to endear him to his new employers.

Yes, yes! Things were finally looking up for ol’ Lucky the Leprechaun!

***​

… Or so he thought. Now, standing in the middle of a decrepit mining facility located on one of the most dangerous planets in the entire system, dressed in a green tunic and faux leather armor, Lucky wasn’t so sure. He’d been so stressed out that he’d turned completely invisible, hunkered down in one corner of the debris-covered ruin.

Nervously, the 2’10” leprechaun shuffled out into the open, eying the dead xenomorph leaking acidic green all over the ground. He held onto his cane for dear life, the golden stick the only thing keeping him upright on his trembling legs.

“H-haha,” Lucky stammered. “Insured.... is that what we’re here for? To sell insurance?”

Spoiler

Character Name -- Lucky the Leprechaun, dressed as his larp character “Sir Charms”

Any Relevant (Or Irrelevant) Abilities -- Skilled in voice acting/can throw his voice across a room to make his location uncertain. Has a golden walking stick that can pack quite a wallop, and can occasionally turn invisible with his innate leprechaun magicks, but only under extreme duress.

Why They Want This Job -- Lucky was fired from his voice acting job for a cereal company. Living with his parents and unable to afford his costly live action roleplay hobby, Lucky has been searching desperately for a new job ever since.

Dumb Tagline -- “It’s magically… stupendous?!”

 

[Ridley]

Fred Flintstone was known to be many things, solid, loyal, exceptionally easy to anger, and very simple-minded at the best of times. A proud mascot of everything from Cereal to Vitamins to Cigarettes(though he wasn’t particularly proud of the Winston’s once the world had gotten wise to what he was selling to kids - the thought of Pebbles finding one of those commercials and trying to imitate her old man one day still kept Fred up some nights.). Even when that had fallen off, and he’d returned to his old job as a bronto-crane operator to keep supporting his family, there remained one essential thing that defined Fred Flintstone:

He was the world’s number one family man, and nobody, but nobody, was ever going to take that title from him - well…

Maybe Barney. The man always had done well by Betty, and even a rambunctious kid like Bam-bam barely tried his patience. The man was an infinite wellspring of patience with his kids.

Still, the quarry wasn’t doing so well nowadays. Too many people going crazy had Mr. Slate eventually close down the whole thing, and as his mascot deals turned to dust in his hands, and his savings proved to be pretty empty (Wilma was a lovely woman, and Fred would never say a thing against her, but she sure didn’t care for letting money sit in the bank account longer than a month), Fred found himself hurting for a way to keep his mortgage paid and his ends met. Then, he heard about a job opportunity on Inverxe. Sure, it was a lot crazier than Bedrock, but he’d went crazier places for his family. And hey, it’s not like they were sending him off to kill one of those weird black dinosaurs or nothing - they were looking to interview a new mascot for their cereal.

So it was that Fred Flintstone came out in his sunday best, Tuxedo with ripped sleeves, top hat, bow-tie and cane, as he came down the lift.

Immediately after hearing the sounds of the lift screeching through a mining tunnel, he did wonder if work clothes might have actually been a better fit.

“This is a little more informal than I expected. I hope wherever Barney’s interviewing is a little nicer on the knees.” Fred muttered, tapping his foot as he waited for the elevator to move the long distance it had left.

Spoiler

Character name -- Fred Flintstone
Relevant Abilities -- Superhuman strength, Hammerspace club, too stupid to be scared in some situations, superhuman durability, abnormally thick skull. Also, incredibly heavy. Extensive knowledge of mining and quarrying equipment. also a helluva bowler, with the relevant bowling ball on hand and some experience weaponizing His favorite granite bowling ball.
Why they want this job -- Funding Pebbles’ college education
Dumb Tagline -- It’s Super-dee-yabba-dabba-duper!

 

[The Future Warrior]

For what might have been the tenth time since setting foot on the frigid moon of unknown (to him, at least) horrors, the almost amusingly diminutive little caveman glanced at the invitation he had received. It had all been a vague mess, and under normal circumstances he wouldn't have so much as touched it. But, uh...options were...slim. His poor track record with being 'frequently unemployed' had caught up with him again, and left him, as it were, 'currently unemployed'. It left his heart as heavy as the wheels of his car, and nestle right into the pit of his voluminous stomach.

"Tartarus...Mining Facility..." The short little man, one certain Bernard Barnabus Matthew "Barney" Rubble, slowly let his eyes drift up from the letter to the tunnels ahead. It was dark and chilly down here, and having predicted as much he had wisely invested in a bit of an expensive (for his dwindling funds, at any rate) luxury in the form of a sturdy winter jacket. He was quite thankful for having done so. "Boy I hope this is on the up and up, or I'll never hear the end of it." He gulped nervously, messily folding the letter up and shoving it away into a pocket as he trundled on further into the bleak caverns. By all his reckoning, he should have at least been getting close by now, and...

A-ha, there it was. Around one last bend, and he caught signs that something, at least, had once been down here. Signage and billboards on the walls, and the rough-hewn and dug structure of tunnels slowly giving way to more evenly-cut passages, and clear walls. Admittedly, clear walls that were covered in frost and ice and rust, and which worryingly sagged and groaned in numerous places. But they were in fact walls.

Only another minute and he wandered out into the dimly lit and dank interior of a large, truly spacious cavern. He winced at the screeching assault on his ears of the sound of a struggling lift as it descended, and he looked up at it. "Guess I'm not the only one here for the job..." He shuffled in place, burrowing his hands deeper in the fluffy pockets of his coat. Hopefully it wouldn't be a waste, and he'd be able to return home with good news about future work. Not the first time he'd been a mascot, even if he didn't know what exactly he'd be a mascot for this time around...

Just hopefully it wouldn't be for anything he'd be ashamed to have Bam-Bam find out about.

Spoiler

Character Name -- Barney Rubbly
Any Relevant (Or Irrelevant) Abilities -- Caveman (in spite of small size, he's a whole heck of a lot stronger and tougher, not to mention faster and harder to tire out than any ol' "normal" person -- he drives a big car with nothin' but the power of his own two feet, for cryin' out loud!), can hold his own in a scrap better than most, has a sturdy club on hand along with a baseball bat and golf club (where he keeps them is probably best not to worry too much about), and he's got a huge skillset from all his past jobs and endeavors (from bellhop to repossessions to office work to construction to police officer, he's done a lot of stuff), and surprisingly athletic and in good shape thanks to a plethora of sports activities, and not to mention he's a competent inventor and just all-around a good bit smarter than the average schmuck.
Why They Want This Job -- He's always had trouble with jobs, and right now is no exception. But he's gotta live, and the man's got a family to worry about! Mascot work ain't glamorous, but it's definitely a living, so here he is.
Dumb Tagline -- "What we got is better than alla those others, or I was raised by mastodons! Uh hee hee hee!"

 

[Hela]

Well fiddle my titties and call me April …

Jail.

Again.

I’m not sure why they keep playing this game with me. Corporate Daddy keeps bailing me out, but after six stints across four of this galaxies worlds, you think they’d sense a trend? I’m always tellin’ ‘em that I’m just gonna do it again.

And then I do it again.

What can I say … aside from pandering to zoomers and millennials trying to cling to their fading youth, the only other thing I gots in my life is the red. Yea, I know, ketchup is great too, and I’ll be damned if I can pass up some of that jazzy chipotle sauce. But you ever spread real read on an all-beef, never frozen patty? I’m not talking that juice that the soccer moms and Karens of the world squirm at when they get a steak that’s vaguely pink on the inside … I’m talking RED. That’s all caps, if you’re confused.

RED makes every meal better.

There was this one time … Corporate Daddy pulled me out of a slammer down in Markov. That’s the one with rust, right? Anyway, I guess Cevanti isn’t too keen on kids disappearing into alley at night and winding up in dumpsters? In my defense, I left some prime cuts on that porker. They sure as hell wouldn’t find choice meats like that in a restaurant, let me tell you.

Tellin’ me it was ‘illegal’ and ‘immoral’ to sell ‘black market’ beef. They don’t let me cook in the restaurants anymore, so what the hell do they expect me to do? If it ain’t killing or fucking, the only thing I’ve ever wanted to be is a cook.

The sizzle.

I fucking love that sizzle.

Slather some RED on it. Fuck, even the thought makes me wish this cell had a drawer with some fresh drawers in it. Slap my ass and call me old McDonald.

In the distance, I hear the distinct creak of old metal joints. They’re always putting me in this dingy cells. I think they want me to try and escape. I wouldn’t give them the pleasure, especially when the Corporate Daddies always have to bail me out. I might be a monster, but I ain’t the worst thing out there. I enjoy ‘all choice patties’ as much as the next girl, but I don’t try and fuck the meat before I eat it. A girl has standards, y’know. If I want some of that beef, I’ll go to a bar.

I sure as hell won’t film it and keep it for posterity.

I have STANDARDS, y’know. Corporate Daddies bail me out when my luck runs out, and I keep Corporate Daddies from going away to a prison where they would be the screaming star of someone’s secret computer videos.

Fucking gross.

Someone’s coming. Heavy boots on the stone floors. The cell’s bolt clicks open.

Corporate Daddy at it again.

“You’re free,” a voice replied. It belong to a person, but I’ll be damned if I can tell what they look like in the dark. I can hear their blood in their jugular, though. I love me a man with an accelerated heartrate. Keeps the meat all fully ventilated or some sciencey shit. It also makes the RED squirt out of the bottle with such vigor.

I shook my head. Girl, stop. Think of the panties.

“Just like that?” I cooed as I reached out a hand only to have the man spring forward and clip me in some cuffs. Ahh, S&M. I love foreplay.

“You’ll board a transport. Your … people have arranged for your to be transported back to wherever it is they live with themselves.”

“Aww, we don’t have time to get to know each other?”

“Be quiet or I’ll be forced to restrain you.”

Nothing like the threat of police brutality to make a lady’s girlie parts quiver. I sneer and blow the man a kiss. The next thing I know, he’s drawing a taser.

No fun.

***​

I woke up with a hangover.

Drinking? Drugs?

Prison!

Fucking prison, that’s it.

Sitting up to the sound of machinery groaning all around me, I instantly realize that my nipples are pencil erasers, and my breath is all cloudy. As I pull my bruised little body off the ground, I notice the leaflet tucked into my shirt.

“MASCOTS WANTED FOR CORPORATE PROJECT.

“We are looking for experienced mascot talent for an upcoming project. Interviews will be taking place on XX/XX/2020, at XX.XXXX:YY.YYYY on Inverxe. Transportation will not be provided. Potential hires will be expected to have clear schedules for future contract work in the immediate future...”

Inverxe?

Corporate Daddy, I think you just pissed off the wrong ginger.

Spoiler

Character Name – Wendy
Any Relevant (Or Irrelevant) Abilities – Knife, Soulless
Why They Want This Job – Revenge, money, fame, meat
Dumb Tagline – You’re Wendy’s kind of people

 

[Roy Mustang]

He stood at the entrance to the mineshaft, covered head to toe in fur-trimmed winter gear. The weak sun of Inverexe was unable even to touch him beneath his elegant deep brown jacket, but it was still fortunate that the meeting place was underground. It was a dismal place to operate from, reeking of decay and disuse, a squalor that was ill-fitting the message’s claims. If this was to be the base of future operations there would be little point in entertaining their benefactor’s offer, and the trip from Nos’Talgia would be all the more useless a waste of his time.

Granted, the choice of location was now considered public space, which allowed him to avoid that most unpleasant of questions for the moment. He stepped into the lift, a cold fog filling the space as it slowly began to descend. Being this far from his land was foolishness, even with the precautions he had made, He knew this. And yet, the thrill of the thing was half the reason he had even pursued this inquiry. Nos’Talgia was not the place for him now. His ancient homeland stood on the border between Imagen Nation and Sweetzerland, a peaceful space between two powerful forces, forcing him to take refuge in the guise of a humble seller of puffed grains to keep his affairs in order. Perhaps seeking the Uncanny Valley would have been prudent, but the ink being’s methods and mannerisms were…. uncouth and he frankly found the creature as a whole distasteful.

Heh.

The lift slowly descended into the depths of the old mine, leaving behind the weak sunlight of Inverexe in favor of blue toned shadows. Despite himself, he found an appreciation in the places sense of age. It was ill-kept, and lacking in intention, but the weight of its history held merit all the same. He loosened the scarf and pulled up the googles, sniffing the air with a growing anticipation. Cold, as expected, but beneath the frost were remnants of desperation, the lingerings of despair. He ran his tongue over unnaturally sharp teeth, the thought of it starting to ignite his appetite. This place had seen much in its time of operation.

He was beginning to gain a begrudging respect for their mysterious patron. This choice of locales was most fitting for their work. The lift slowed to a stop with a series of shuddering clunks. The perpetual cloud of fog spread out into the space below rolling lazily in the frigid air. Count Choc of Wallatechia stepped out to join the assembled group with a pleased smile, eyes gleaming in anticipation of what was to come.

Spoiler

Character Name – Count Choc of Wallatechia, Or Count Chocula to the peasants.
Any Relevant (Or Irrelevant) Abilities – shapeshifting (into mist, chocolate wolf or chocolate bat forms only, the later two are not mobile of their own accord, think a chocolate bunny, but with extra nightmare), able to scale walls hang from ceilings, Unnatural strength and agility, creates no reflection, minor telepathic/hypnotic powers, minor weather manipulating abilities, primarily in the form of storms and fog. (His distance from his “domain” in Nos’Talgia means that he’s vulnerable to all your standard mortal “dying” problems though)
Why They Want This Job – looking for a new place to lay claim to away from Nos’Talgia
Dumb Tagline – Fame fades, life ebbs, <your product here> is eternal.

 

[Omelette Robotnik]

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, I'M FIRED!?!"

"Well... yes," began Harold, the old-as-balls head of the Torgue Corporation. "You see, we've been seeing a reduction in sales lately, and the marketing team felt that we needed a new, fresh face for the company. People don't want to buy guns from loud, overly-muscled guys anymore. They want something hip. So, meet your replacement: Mx. Torg'e."

Behind his radical shades, Torgue's eyes widened as an androgynous, skinny-jeans-wearing person walked into the room. While the board of directors all murmured their approval to each other, Torgue was left to gape at his clean-shaved, green-haired replacement.

"TOR-GAY?!" he exclaimed, walking closer to Harold. "DID YOU *BEEP*ERS JUST FRENCH UP MY *BEEP*ING NAME?! THAT'S SOME GRADE-A BULL*BEEP* RIGHT THERE!"

Not for the first, or last, time did the muscular mascot regret being forced to have that digital implant installed into his voice box. Or for selling his company to this asshats in the first place. Though, that twelve bucks and a high-five WERE pretty fucking sweet.

"YOU KNOW WHAT?! *BEEP* IT! YOU DON'T WANT ME HERE, I'M GONE, SUCKERS! I'LL GO MAKE MY OWN COMPANY!! WITH BLACKJACK! AND HOOKERS! BUT ONLY THE ONES WHO ENJOY THEIR JOB AND THE CRAFT, AND ARE TREATED WITH RESPECT BY THEIR CLIENTELE, BECAUSE NOTHING IS BADDER THAN TREATING OTHERS WITH RESPECT!!"

And, with a sick air-guitar solo, Torgue left his old company behind, eager to start his new life elsewhere. Unfortunately, business loans are hard as fuck to get when you're an unemployed 43 year old! But, it seemed that old Flexington luck hadn't quite run out, when he was contacted by some mysterious company looking for a mascot.

"THEY WANT A MASCOT! THAT'S MY JAM, BOY! I'M IN!"

EXPLOSIONS!?

Character Name -- Mister Torgue High-Five Flexington (Mr. Torgue for short)
Any Relevant (Or Irrelevant) Abilities -- Awesome mustache Rank 999, Atomic Elbow Drop, EXPLOSIONS!
Why They Want This Job -- "THOSE *BEEP*HOLES FIRED ME FROM MY OWN *BEEP*ING COMPANY! THAT'S SOME BULL*BEEP*!!"
Dumb Tagline -- "BUY MY SHIT!!"

 

[Mickey Mouse]

Part One
(The Noid, Meow the Meow Mix Cat, Flo the Progressive Lady, Lucky the Leprechaun, Fred Flintstone, Barney Rubbly, Wendy, Count Chocula, Mr. Torgue)​

“What a buncha idiots.”

Trench Coat -- though he was now more like Blazer/Sweater Vest Combo -- leaned back in a supremely comfortable rolling office chair, kicking his loafers off and resting his feet on the desk before him.

Up here in this nondescript, leased-out office space on the Hub, the nine interviewees that had collected in that podunk mining facility could be seen over a live feed on his Dell laptop, currently all standing around like a gaggle of bozos.

Two cavemen, two murderous-looking ladies, a literal cat, a fucking chocolate vampire, some ugly, red-suited man, a big muscly dude, and -- from what Trench Coat knew of the species -- an actual leprechaun. This motley crew wasn’t exactly the perfect party for you to wreck some noobs with in Call of Duty: Crossroads Warfare, but a few of them seemed equipped enough to hold their own against the terrors of the frozen moon. Those that didn’t seemed clever enough -- or, more likely, desperate enough -- to potentially prove him wrong.

“Sir,” the cybernetic drone of his robot assistant reached his ears, and Trench Coat looked up to see the near-perfect creation peeking into the room. “Would you like your champagne straight or in mimosa-style for the opening?”

The man’s large fingers traveled to his chin and stroked the grizzled facial hair. It’d been a long time since he’d enjoyed your classic ‘gay brunch’ and the accompanying bottomless mimosas, though he hadn’t gone without invites.

“Slap some orange juice in it,” he grinned.

“Pulp or no pulp?” his assistant asked.

“No pulp sounds absolutely refreshing on this -- is it morning?” he glanced around the room before remembering he’d trended on the cheap side and gotten an office without windows. “I can never tell on this goddamn moon.”

***

It wasn’t morning, and though they didn’t know it, most of the nine interviewees were doomed to never see another rising sun.

Tartarus Mining Facility was eerily quiet despite the nine new faces that had arrived in it over the past hour. Wendy slumped against a wall, eyes trained on the eight others. She hadn’t signed up for this business, but even if the job itself was a below-adequate prize, the souls of these ridiculous-looking people would be payment enough to satisfy her.

Well, except for the fucking cat. She may be fucked up, but even she didn’t want to murder a goddamn kitty. Just look how cute it was, clambering up the rusted and probably less-than-structurally sound mining equipment!

For his part, Meow was having an absolute blast. This metal jungle gym was way better than any scratching post or turntables he’d ever encountered.

“Is anyone going to get that goddamn cat down?” Flo shouted, tapping her foot impatiently.

Barney and Fred, who had collected in one corner of the cavern and built a fire for warmth like the resourceful cavemen they were, looked up at the woman.

“Hey, lady, he’s a cat,” Fred shrugged, “let him play!”

“Jesus Christ,” Flo sighed, defeatedly, turning away.

“Meow,” Meow growled from behind her.

Flo spun around. “What the fuck did you just say to me, pussy?”

The cat didn’t answer so much as it blasted the ground before Flo’s feet with its laser eyes. The former spokeswoman leapt back, yanking the semi-automatic assault rifle off of her utility belt and aiming it at the kitty cat.

“Holy shit,” Lucky shouted, scampering over behind The Noid.

“Yo, what do you think you’re doing, shorty?” the woebegotten pizza mascot screeched. “I ain’t gettin’ shot for your medieval-lookin’ ass!”

“Who are you callin’ short?” Lucky scowled, stepping back and glaring at the Noid. “I am Sir Charms and you will treat me with respect -- ”

Semi-auto shots rang out throughout the mining facility, and all eyes turned, once again, towards Flo. She pelted Meow’s mining equipment jungle gym with bullets until Mr. Torgue, stepping into action, tackled her to the ground.

“YOU ARE NOT HANDLING THAT WEAPON PROPERLY, MA’AM,” the hulking monstrosity of a man shouted as he pinned Flo to the floor.

“Woah, woah, woah, guys!” Barney Rubble shouted, lifting his club and approaching the fray. “You guys are gonna get us all rejected, and some of us need this money!”

Lasers streaked the ground again, and Torgue rolled himself and Flo out of their path. The Meow Mix cat, not murdered by Flo’s bullets, crept out of the scaffolding, launching laser blast after laser blast quite randomly through the cavern until suddenly, everyone’s head turned when there was a large creak.

The cat’s lasers, it seemed, had sliced through some of the scaffolding on the opposite wall of the cavern. As the metal slid off its hinges and toppled to the floor, the rock behind it began to crumble and crack. For all their troubles getting to this planet, trying to change their lives and bring themselves a little bit of good fortune, all nine of them were all about to fucking die in a rockslide.

Then the xenomorph burst through the cracked wall.

And not just one: two, three, four -- who knows how many alien creatures crashed out of the cavern wall, sending rocks and dirt flying throughout the Tartarus Mining Facility. As the cave began to crumble around them, the nine mascots suddenly forgot any enmity they’d had with each other and began to sprint in the exact opposite direction of the encroaching horde of monsters.

“Look zere!” Count Choc pointed his strangely well-manicured nail, “a tunnel!”

He was right: a singular tunnel led out of the mining facility to who knows where. As they sprinted, the Noid stopped in his tracks, desperately wondering if maybe it was worth it to make a break for the lift and try to just get back to the surface. Lucky spun around, all hostility melted, and reached out a tiny hand. “Come on, what are you doing?!”

His pleas, combined with the sudden lurching of the lift, were enough to capture the attention of all nine of the fleeing mascots as well as the xenomorph horde pursuing them. Across the cavern, they watched as a tenth competitor rode down into the cave and stepped off. He seemed to be… a clown?

Ronald McDonald had been at rock bottom, he thought, but as he looked up, he realized he was about to be at the bottom of a rock.

The entire crew of xenomorphs pounced as a falling boulder ended Ronald’s life. The encroaching horde obscured him from view, save for the occasional mangled limb that flew out of the mess. The other nine mascots watched helplessly. It was maybe an understatement to say that (almost) none of them were… lovin’ it.

“This is fucking twisted,” Wendy grinned.

“WE GOTTA *BEEP*ING GO,” Torgue shouted from the head of the pack, waving the rest of them on just as the xenomorphs refocused their attention on the rest of their prey.

The nine mascots disappeared into the tunnel, trailed by a horde of insane, vicious, bloodthirsty monsters fresh from their first meal in a while. From his comfortable chair in his nondescript office, a smirk bisected Trench Coat’s face.

Heh. Capitalism rocks.

Spoiler

Ronald McDonald, candidate number 10, has been killed by a boulder then ripped apart by the xenomorphs.

The rest of you are currently being pursued deeper into the hostile caverns of Inverxe by the horde of alien monstrosities. Fighting them, surviving them, or some combination of both is your challenge for Week One of #LateStageCapitalism.

On Friday, I will post a small update informing you it is time to vote someone off the ‘island.’ You may continue to post while voting is taking place. On Sunday, I will post an update killing off whoever is voted out, though there will be a way for the killed character to continue to play that will be revealed later.

For now, have fun fighting aliens, fam!

 

[Mickey Mouse]

Well, this may not have been what I fuckin’ signed up for, but at least I came goddamn prepared.

As my rocket launcher sagged to my hip, I gripped the motherfucker with all my might and pressed down on the trigger. A double barrage of missiles crashed into one of ugly fucking things and it crumpled to the cold, cave floor. Unluckily, a crew of four or five reared their ugly heads behind it right then, and I shook my head and muttered some curses underneath my breath before I turned and sprinted off again.

The fuck were these corporate bitches actually thinking, asking us to meet ‘em in this broke down mining tunnel on this nightmare of a planet? Hell, the big man in charge hadn’t even arrived before everything had gone south. I suppose that -- despite my admittedly inflated sense of my own self-worth -- I could see how some corporate big wigs might view us as disposable, but had they accounted for the fact that xenomorphs might pop on by when they’d arrived and started holdin’ interviews? What the hell were they going to do when they showed up and found that clown’s shredded corpse and a hive of alien beasts ready to do the same to them?

That’s when it fucking hit me that these bitches weren’t about to show up at all.

“The fuckin’ nerve,” I said aloud as I caught my breath against a cave wall.

I didn’t have many seconds to suck in that sweet, sweet O2, though, before another one of those creatures zipped around the corner and tried to gnash me with its pincers, straight up. It lunged, and I pressed the rocket launcher to its head, freshly loaded with a new missile, and blasted its head into a thousand or more tiny little pieces. Honestly, I knew it probably wasn’t appropriate, but a smirk flashed on my face for just a fucking second. I liked feelin’ badass, what could I say?

I yanked back on the reloadin’ lever and goddamn it, wouldn’t you know it decided that now -- whilst I was in the midst of a hive of fuckin’ killer aliens -- now was the moment that it needed to fuckin’ jam.

I couldn’t see myself but I imagine my eyes went some kinda wide as I realized another rocket wasn’t just gonna fold easily into the chamber. For a split second I tried to find some reason in my past as to why God, who’d always insured me before, would let me fuckin’ fall to my death at the hands of some literal idiotic cat’s stupidity. But then I shook that shit off and tossed the rocket launcher to the ground, snatching my semi-auto off my belt and shooting off several rounds towards some goddamn falling rocks from the other side of the tunnel I was inhabitin’.

“Whoa, lady, shit,” the tiny little thing exhaled as he stood up from behind the rocks.

“You’re one lucky bastard,” I said. “I don’t usually miss.”

“That’s what I’m known for,” he muttered, and as he clambered out of the small rock formation I noticed he was literally dressed like a medieval knight. Feelin’ ever so slightly bad for almost loading him up with bullets, I reached down and helped him out of the tangle of boulders and up to my level. “Rocket launcher die?”

“It’s fuckin’ stuck,” I shrugged.

“Hm, lemme see what I can finagle,” the leprechaun mused, darting over toward my big weapon and reaching his tiny weapons inside. Half of me suddenly became extra worried this motherfucker was gonna pull the wrong cord and blow himself -- and, to be honest, me -- to smithereens, but within seconds, he’d seemed to unjam the thing and rolled it back over toward me.

“Nice job, uhh…?”

“Sir Charms,” he smiled, a weird gesture to be doing when a horde of xenomorphs were lurking in the tunnels.

“Flo,” I introduced myself, then I heard some commotion. Nearby us was a slight drop, and we could see down into an adjacent tunnel where most of our would-be compadres were fighting off a horde of, God, ten or twelve fuckers.

“Y’know, Sir Charms,” I said, “right now insuring people doesn’t seem like the wisest idea, but it’s what I do. Feel free to join me if you’d like, but I’m takin’ the fight to these bitches.”

I gave Sir Charms the slightest of smiles and stepped off the ledge, rocket launcher slung on my back again and semi aimed for the horde. My feet touched down amidst the others, and, well…

...let’s just say the little xeno bitches got a little bit of what was comin’ to ‘em.

 

[Arthur Morgan]

“Whoa,” said Lucky— er, Sir Charms, leaning forward to peer over the ledge. Acidic green blood went flying everywhere, the impact of dozens of high-powered bullets rocking the cavern walls, and at the center of it all was Flo. “What a badass!”

 

[Hela]

Y’know, I was always a fan of that clown.

Don’t get me wrong, he was an awful lay, and I’m pretty sure we’re related or something, but y’know … he knew how to pull the children. Maybe if I’d been born in the forties, I could have gotten away with just face paint and toys but nowadays everyone needs instant, almost never-ending satisfaction.

At some point in the all the shit going on, I wound up scrambling down a corridor. Like the rest of this place, everything’s some degree of frozen. How many fucking times do people have to be told that ‘never frozen’ is the best way to keep your beef?

Remind me to tweet about this later.

I’m huffing by the time I spot the steel door up ahead. Where are the rest of the forgotten toys? Are there really enough tunnels for everyone? Eh, probably.

I crash against the door, and all around it, a thin layer of ice crinkles—a sure-fire sign that I’m about twenty seconds away from a barb-shaped enema. I give it another go, smashing my shoulder into the door, and this time, there’s enough give that the partially frozen steel passage cracks open along its seams.

I slip through the door and collapse against it with all my weight. My fingers find a latch that I know ain’t gonna do shit against the lion-sized monster pursuing me.

But, hey, give a girl a break.

Something crashes against the door, and the whole tunnel seems to shake around me. Claws rake at the metal, and your girl Wendy might not know much from those two and a half semesters of community college … but she knows the sound of failing steel when she hears it.

I head further into the dark. At some point, I’m sure this tunnel will loop back to a spot where I’ll be reunited with the rest of the cast of misbegotten toys. I’ve seen enough trashy b-movies to know where this plot winds up.

Something in the distance explodes. One of a few, actually. Someone out there playin’ with fire, and all I’ve got is…

Oh, right – came from prison.

I also came in prison, but I’m guessin’ this isn’t the time or the place.

Up ahead, the tunnel seems to widen. Back in the dark, there’s the final screech of failing metal. Stumbling out from the tunnel, I find myself staring around at a wide opening decorated with a few beaten down metal shacks and dotted with old mining equipment. Up ahead, the ground falls away, leading me to imagine that’s probably not a leap of fate I’d like to take.

“Think.” Sometimes, it’s nice to hear your voice out loud. Reminds you that you’d not quite dead or insane just yet. Well, maybe just not quite dead, and we’ll leave it at that.

Spying the equipment shack, I make a break for it as the sound of heavy feet thudding in the dark draws closer. Get a weapon, get a spot, get the drop.

Just like any other day at the office.

Right?

 

[Arthur Morgan]

Having sufficiently remarked on Flo’s evident radness, Lucky backed away from the ledge, wringing his hands together in an attempt to calm his nerves. The battle cries of his fellow potential hirees bounced off the cavern walls, the screeching snarls of the horrifying black-shelled creatures rising to answer them. But here Lucky was, away from all that mess… and feeling mighty guilty about it.

Still, what was a small fry like him supposed to do against aliens like that?

“Something stupid, no doubt,” the ginger-haired shortstack remarked to himself, brandishing his golden walking stick. The smooth metal glinted in the dark, fitting easily into the curve of his hands and bearing a hefty weight. It would have to do!

With a wince on his face and a nauseous twinge in the pit of his stomach, Lucky hopped down after Flo, managing to land with only a slight stumble. A lot of the other mascots seemed to fairly tower over him, the top of his head just barely meeting them at about waist-height when he straightened up to find himself at the center of the group. Others, though, were of a similar stature, and definitely just as colorful.

It was certainly lucky, in the little leprechaun’s opinion, that he was able to blend so seamlessly into their midst. After all, when everyone was a bit strange, it was hard to stand out. Which made it a lot easier to--

Swinging his cane around like a baseball bat, Lucky bapped one of the hissing creatures as it made to lunge past the defensive semi-circle they’d formed, leaving a slight dent in its weird cylindrical skull. This only seemed to dissuade the alien monster for a brief second, though, before it was trying to disrupt their formation once more, barbed tail working just about like how a shepherd’s crook steers a flock of sheep around.

Well, Lucky wasn’t a darn sheep! Over the sound of raging gunfire, Lucky yelped a pathetic battle cry, leaping out from the group’s protection. With all the grace of a 2x kindergarten track and field champion, Lucky dove beneath the monster on its next lunge, narrowly missing certain evisceration by those wickedly sharp claws.

As the creature twisted to seek him out, unknowable senses already locked onto his biosignature, Lucky split off from the other hirees in a mad dash, the monster already hot on his heels and swiftly gaining.

Fortuitously, this was just what Lucky wanted. He knew he wouldn’t be able to face the monster head on, but maybe if he could find a more secluded, quiet spot…

Lucky’s gaze roved around, finally alighting upon a dark offshoot from the main cavern, a narrow mining tunnel likely terminating in a dead end. With a click of his heels and a mischievous grin, Lucky bounded for it like a fleeing rabbit, trying not to focus too hard on the paw-like tread picking up speed behind him.

Ducking into the tunnel and noting that it did, indeed, end rather abruptly, Lucky immediately located a suitably large rock. He leaped over the craggy stone and promptly hunkered down in its shadow, hands resting on his knees as he suppressed the hard breaths and exhausted panting wanting to break free from his lungs. A bead of sweat trickled down his nose as he waited, heart beating like a drum in his chest.

A shadow fell over the already quite dark tunnel. Lucky scrambled back a bit further into his hiding spot, trembling. He only hoped his heritage had granted him something other than ridicule and torment for once, something that he’d only managed to do once or twice before in his life when facing down a particularly hulking bully.

The xenomorph entered the tunnel, passing far too close to Lucky for the now-invisible leprechaun’s comfort. It moved slowly, gracefully, its cylindrical head tilting in curiosity when it did not immediately spot its prey, a trickle of over-eager saliva dripping from its fangs. A low trill left its throat, thrumming out to bounce off the tiny alcove’s walls.

This was all the chance Lucky needed. Flickering back into the visible range directly behind the monstrous creature, Lucky raised his golden walking stick high above his head. With a hoarse cry, he brought it down hard on a nearby support beam, the structure clearly weakened by wood rot and age. The thing splintered under the weak blow, buckling under the ceiling’s weight.

Hurling himself backward and tripping to the ground, Lucky watched as a heap of heavy boulders collapsed from the ceiling, sealing off the small grotto’s entrance and trapping the creature in a stony tomb.

Closing his eyes, Lucky slumped backwards onto the floor with a relieved sigh, momentarily forgetting where he was. It was only when a droplet of something wet splattered onto his cheek that his senses returned to him, eyelids snapping open in terror.

Another one of the creatures towered over him, though that wasn’t really anything special. Everything towered over Lucky; it wasn’t like it was hard. It just so happened that this thing looming over him appeared extremely threatening, what with its exposed teeth and nonexistent eyeballs.

Lucky gulped, clutching his walking stick close to his chest. Ruh-roh, Raggy.

 

[Jak]

For a second, I forgot where I was. I felt like the “cat’s pajamas” playing on this metal wooden cat play set. I thought it was quite sturdy for what I wanted to enjoy. I was having a blast until Ms. Flo “Ellen” Ripley decided it was best playtime was over for me and she tried to cuss me out.

Nobody cusses Meow out.

I knew I should have gone with the terminator anesthetic but no it had to be freaking Xenomorphs.

I slid a pair of sunglasses over my face and smirked a quick meow before meowing “Meow be back.”

The furminator or not, one of our fellow co-potential co workers died that day. That clown dude.

I was already slicing and dicing Xenomorphs as much as I could before I caught up with the others.

“I’m back!”

Meow mew (Alright, I’ll stop with the terminator lines.)

Time for this dj cat to get WILLLLLLLLD! Laser eyes reflected through the cool pair of terminator glasses I pulled out of nowhere.

“MEOW MEOW MEOW MEOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW MEOW MEW MEOW!”

I meowed others a warning!

(Be careful of my singing!)

Time to put my wondrous meow mix dj and singing career to use as I pulled out the microphone and meowed in a wondrous tone as loud as I could. Hopefully the sound waves would scare the Xenos away from Ellen “Flo” Ripley and Sir Charms.

 

[Mickey Mouse]

Voting begins now!

Everyone has two OOC days (until Tuesday at around noon) to send me their votes in a private message to this Mickey Mouse account as to who they'd like to see fall from the competition. You may still post in the meantime, no worries!!

 

[Ridley]

Fred Flintstone was beyond confused as everything had gone absolutely triassic in this little xenomorph interview. At one moment, he’s concerned about keeping on his sunday best, talking with Barn (Who had apparently decided to apply for the same job as he had and not tell him)

That was a good point.

“Say, barn, why didn’t you tell me you were applying for this job?” Fred asked, just barely jumping high enough for his tippy-toes to avoid cross-fire between a hail of Flo’s bullets and an angry alien menace. The group was getting tasked to get past this point, and Fred was still trying to figure out what the heck this task actually was!

“Well,uh, Fred, I-uh did tell you I was applying for a job.”

“You said it had to do with Heavy lifting, Barn!”

“With-uh my mascot experience, it-uh pretty much is! You know anything’d be easy after the fruity pebbles stint, Fred!”

Fred just gave a grumble in response as Barney’s usual rubble logic washed over him. “B-but what’s all this? I’ve done plenty of mascotting over the years, and I’ve never once seen an operation that requires you to-hoo-hoo…” Fred trailed off as both him and Barn skidded to a halt in front of one of those things.

“Now how did that thing get behind me?!”

“L-l-looks like these guys are even worse at locking the c-c-cat out than you are, Fred!” Barney managed to stammer, as the creature advanced.

Time seemed to slow down a little as it’s raspy growl came out, and for an instant, Fred was frozen, the smell of the thing already making him want to retch. It turned it’s head to fred, and all he could think about was how wrong and messed up and simply not part of his life this was.

But then, ti’s head jerked to Barney, and it’s tail was brought up in a motion that was a lead in for a stout skewering, and something hit Fred Flintstone.

If he didn’t move - right now - he was going to have to explain to Betty exactly what had happened to Barney down here. What’s more, he was going to have to explain to Bam-bam, as he got older, exactly what happened to Barney. He was going to have to go home and tell Wilma exactly how his best friend had gotten skewered by some mutated raptor.

But most of all, if he didn’t get up and over this fear, right here and right now, he’d have to go home, look in the mirror, and tell Fred Flintstone that he’d lost a friend because he’d frozen up. And his body started to move by itself as Fred realized he absolutely couldn’t do that.

Two large caveman hands grabbed the tail of the creature a half a second before Barney was about to be skewered, and the Muscles trembled as they held the Xeno’s tail back. “Barn, if you’d be so kind, I could use a bit of assistance!”

The harsh words seemed to bring Barn back out of his own tip-toe’ing, as he brought a club far larger than someone his size should be able to hold out from behind his back and lined up a swing.

“This is-uh quite a tale for later, huh Fred? Eh-hee-hee, e-hee-hee-hee-hehe..”

“Barney, If you don’t hurry up and swing, I’ll be tailing you a new one!” Fred yelled, and like that the Rubble just had a broad grin as he swung for the fences and caved in the Xenomorph’s ribs, leaving the creature wretching on the floor.

That was good enough as the two skedaddled on legs that were ready to go. For normal people, top speed for this long might have been a bit much, but Fred and Barney had been peddling their own cars for far too long for a little thing like this to stop them.

“Uhh, Fred, ya got a spare club in that briefcase? Mine’s looking a little rough around the edges…” Barney muttered as the two ran from the horde behind them, a green mucus having eaten half the club away.

“As a matter of fact, I did plan for just such an occasion.” Fred explained with a smug grin, opening his briefcase without breaking stride as he pulled out a large club… and something else bounced out. “Oh! Forgot I was going to go for that in case I didn’t get the job…”

And as the item rolled out, Fred’s eyes glittered, as he watched the cavern narrow.

“Barn, I have an idea. Have you gotten any better at your golf game?”

“It-uhhh, happens to still be a work-in-progress!” Barney added.

“Perfect!”

The two ran for just a few more seconds, Barney seeming more curious at what Fred was doing than anything, as the Caveman scooped it up.

His prized possession.

The ball that had won him his first championship in Bedrock.

Fred turned in one smooth motion, and his fingers found their familiar hand-holds even as the Xenomorphs piled on in towards the opening.

Bless him, this was actually easier to aim for than the pins.

Fred Looks into the slavering horde of alien beasts with nothing but a relaxed, smug smirk on his face, as his fingers go back and his tippy-toes brought him forward. He’s close enough that one of them feels the need to screech hard enough to send spittle flying at his face, but his concentration as a bowler was always superb.

“Looks like a strike, Fred!”

“Watch and learn, Barn!” Fred shot back, as he released his beautiful, strong, and completely solid granite bowling ball with legendary force. The sphere struck past with all the speed of a racing jet, and broke a few dozen legs with an unpleasant chorus of crackling noises.

Fred smiled, smugly holding his hand out as the ball hit a curve on the cavern wall behind them and swung back into his waiting hand.

“A-mazing work, if I do say so myself.” Fred’s grin grew broad at his handi-work.

It quickly turned to panic as another one of these Insectosaurs plopped out from above, sitting on the Ceiling.

“B-barn I th-think I missed one.”

“Four!”

“Four?”

No, Fore!”

Fred got the hint just in time as he ducked, a xenomorph claw just missing his head… along with a small but very compact rock that embedded itself in the surviving Freak’s head.

It took just a few seconds for Fred to catch his breath, and he found it grimly convenient that it took that long for his breathing to stop coming out in ragged pants.

“Barn, I’m startin’ to think this job’s not worth the pay.”