---

Her eyes snapped open as she awoke from her forced slumber. Immediately the young woman scanned her surroundings, taking note of the newest situation she found herself in. The first thing that caught her attention was the sphere around her. Some sort of red bubble that was large enough for her to stand within, but prevented her from moving further than her current position. A cautious hand reached out to press against the bubble. Surprisingly warm to the touch, it gave no leeway as she pushed against it with her finger tips. Flattening her palm against the surface she used more of her strength, determining just how sturdy her most recent prison was. As she did so, a connection in her mind clicked; her strength, it had returned. She brought her hands up quickly to her neck, searching for the unwanted accessory that was no longer there. This was new; ever since she had been brought to this strange world she had been forced to wear some sort of collar that had neutralized her abilities. But now, for the first time in over a month, they had removed it. Whomever they were.

Lorena Marquez, otherwise known as the hero Aquagirl, was not a native of this world. While back home she had been a noble force for truth, and justice alongside her King and savior, Orin, here she was nothing more than a captive like so many countless others. On her first night here, Lorena had overheard one of her jailers mention the newest batch of slaves had arrived from a different dimension. At first, she had believed this to mean she was in Xebel - an aquatic world much like her own, existing in a separate dimension, in which her Queen, Lady Mera, had been born - but none of the guards Lorena had seen during her time here, nor the scientists who had poked and prodded her during her first week had been of Xebel origin. In fact, all those she had encountered thus far had appeared, in many ways, to be of alien design unlike anything she had ever known before. Overtime, it had become evident to her that she was much further from home than she had previously thought. That, however, would not stop her from escaping and finding her way back to Atlantis and her King, of that she was sure.

Lor, in her role as Aquagirl, had been praised for her calm reasoning and deductive mind, and she used those aspects now as she focused on her current situation. She could remember, albeit hazily, the last moments she was lucid for before she woke here, in this strange, bubble-like cage. A woman, if you could call her that considering the striking silver hair, masculine armor, and four additional limbs she had possessed, had come to Lorena in her cell. It was the first time she had seen this person since being taken, but it was clear from how the guards had given the armored woman a respectable berth, and from how she had carried herself that she was of considerable importance.

"Stand, slave," the woman had told Lor then. "You have been determined to be of sufficient worth to compete in today's event. Your costume will be returned to you as the viewers take delight in seeing your pretty little outfits stained with blood." She said this last bit with a smirk, referring to Lorena's Atlantean armor she wore as Aquagirl, originally taken from her when she had first been abducted.

The six-armed woman continued in what seemed to be an explanation she gave fairly often. "You will be taken to the coliseum where you will face four of your fellow slaves in combat. Those heroic sensibilities your kind seem to so strongly admire will not serve you in your new life. If you wish to survive long, abandon them. But, whether you perish or not is of no consequence, so long as you entertain."

Then the woman had turned to the guards that accompanied her, speaking in a language Lorena did not understand, and the last thing she could recall was a sharp sensation as needles from her slave collar sunk into her skin and injected her with a tranquilizing agent of some sort.

Lorena looked down at herself, her full wits now again with her, noticing that she had been garbed in her Aquagirl costume, as was promised. It seemed her captors, this silver haired woman, wanted her to compete in a death match for their amusement. They believed that after a month of invasive tests and isolation that she would be subjugated to follow along with their sadistic intentions like a good little sheep. They were fools. Lorena Marquez, Aquagirl, adopted daughter of the great King Orin of Atlantis and ruler of the seas, was no one's sheep. They would not herd to the slaughter, and they could not force her to abandon her honor no matter their methods.

Accepting that there was no immediate way of bypassing the spherical field that bound her - and it was clear to her they would release her eventually for their cruel gladiator match to begin - she looked past the transparent bubble at what awaited her. She stood, it seemed, on a raised pillar some couple hundred feet above the ground, granting her a great sight line of the arena she had been placed in. It looked to be a large box-like structure with immensely tall walls leading up to a domed roof. The walls, which Lorena estimated to be of about a mile in length, curved out slightly, and they appeared to be metallic in nature. Rustic and clunky, Lor made note that they may provide a potential escape should she be able to locate a section in the wall with a crack or some other structural weakness.

Aside from the building itself, there were ruins beneath and ahead of her, spreading across the entire arena as far as she could see. She was too far off from them to be sure, but the various statues and pillars, broken and worn down, seemed to be comprised of both stone and metal. There was sparse vegetation she could spot, tangling itself around some of the structures below. They, too, looked to be alien in nature, further leading her to believe that perhaps her captors were indeed extra-terrestrial. Although she had never encountered any, she had heard tales from her King that there had once been a handful of alien protectors on Earth, before her time. It was not an entirely improbably concept, she decided.

Off in the distance a red object caught her notice. In the center of the giant box structure, amid the crumbled ruins, she could just make out the faint hue of another bubble. Though she could not distinguish whether or not someone was inside, she was sure it held one of the four other captives the woman had mentioned. A quick glance towards the corners to her far right and left strengthened this theory as she could make out two similar red shapes atop pillars on both sides.

Once this game of theirs begins, I must be careful, she thought. Although I refuse to participate in their savagery I cannot be sure the others will not. Nor do I know what they may be capable of.

Lorena considered that, perhaps, the other four were fellow Atlanteans abducted along with her, but she had been alone when she was taken, and the woman had clearly mentioned costumed heroes brutalizing one another was of particular enjoyment here. Lor knew of no other hero on her world who wore what could be considered a costume, beside her King and Lady Mera, all others had been wiped out during the Great Catastrophe, and she refused to believe that anyone was capable of capturing either of those two. No, Lorena figured that, if she were right about her captors being aliens, the other prisoners here with her were likely also taken from different worlds. If Earth had costumed heroes, she saw no logical reason why other planets with empowered beings would be any different.

Before she could ponder more on this, however, the sphere began to glow a deeper shade of red, pulsing and flashing alongside the sound of a loud buzzer. A countdown for the start of their intended death match, it seemed. Lorena took a step back to steady herself as the pillar shook with a resounding rumble, and lowered itself closer to the ground, though it still stopped at least fifty feet short of the surface. The red force field that had been containing her faded away quickly, allowing her freedom of mobility once more.

For the first time since she had been forcibly taken one month ago, Lorena was capable of moving about as she pleased, no longer cooped inside one cramped cage or another. And, although she wasn't entirely and truly free from captivity, as she leaped off the pillar and to the ground she had but one thought on her mind: escape.

---

Running diagnostics. Gap in memory suggests physical trauma to the head or an active chemical agent. High levels of foreign compounds in blood indicate latter. Brain activity is up. Muscles, relaxing. Blood concentration returning to normal.

The body lay across the floor of their glowing red cage begins to shudder, shook awake as the last of the sedatives and the neuroleptics wear away. Having an alien scarab with the ability to regulate the body's functions could really come in handy some days.

"Nice, uhh. Nice to see you too." The occupant yawns with a tired smile, worn as it was. Shaking herself awake, she notes the looseness around her neck.

Collar that suppressed neural link was removed following induced sleep. Connection now reestablished but Cassandra Lang is weak. Blood sugar and body fat are concerning. Suggestion: search for a new host.

Cassie sits up, scouring her blonde, matted hair with a tingling hand and a dumbfounded look.

"Okay, assuming that that's off the table..." She asks, equal measures perturbed and enthusiastic, as her eyes begin to gravitate to the red energy field surrounding her, and her hand continues to wander. Pinching down, she pulls out a particularly damaged hair from her untended scalp and brings it close to her face. She looks at it for a moment, before refocussing.

Pause and collect.

"Inspiring. You could have made a killing as a motivational speaker. You are so wasted with me"

Agreed.

Cassie smirks, stretching her leg out from her seated position, her other foot mooring her as she attempts to get up. Having already caught a few glimpses of the amphitheatre below, she suddenly feels all the more exposed. Her arms move guardedly to her torn attire in an effort to preserve modesty. The ruined architecture jutting from the floor gives her a pang of unease as she struggles on her feet.

If you are set for us to continue on with this faulty host, it would be logical to rest.

"Concern now? What's wrong with you today? Usually you're the one getting me hurt. Seriously. It's like it's your job." While a gratuitous smile does invade Cassie's lips, she does take a moment to comply with the scarab's request and gently takes a knee. "Anyone else might think you were softening up, Bug-Suit."

Two months is a long time to have only yourself to talk to.

Cassie's expression softens a little. Her thoughts linger on the unrelenting solitude she had faced during her internment. Those thoughts threaten to linger a little too long, before she shakes herself out of it.

"Hear, hear. Amen to that." She smiles, stopping. Her eyes optimistically fix on the mechanisms surrounding their prison bubble, following the wall of energy down to a sturdier looking wall made of a shinier and far more solid looking material. Its bulk was intimidating while wholly impressive but they'd broken through tougher looking she thought.

"What are you making of all of this?" A silence draws as she becomes aware of her other, hard at work.

This would seem to be the arena the cyborg supporting the multiple appendages --

"-- Arm-Freak-Lady."

...The arm freak lady briefed you on before you passed out of consciousness. Not unrelated, you will be pleased to know that my access to your memories has been restored."

"Can't have you slumming around my brain without you knowing my private thoughts and desires now can I?" She smirks, relieved at least that her sense of humour had survived the beatings and torture. Incidentally, she hoped nobody had been taping her during all of that. She really wasn't at her best.

I fail to see the relevance of our captors --

"Shush. We need to focus on finding a way out of here." Feeling a little sharper, she hesitantly finds her feet again, standing loosely but with conviction. Shuddering but with some force, she extends her arms to the force field. At their touch, she draws back sharply as a short burst of pain hits her fingers.

Caution: energy field likely to be engineered to inflict pain during interaction with organic material.

Sucking the tip of her index finger, she scowls.

"You seriously need to work on your timing." The pain begins to ebb away as she surveys the field again. "What now?"

I would suggest attempting to breach again. Statistically speaking, there's every likelihood you were just doing it wrong."

"...I really missed you, Bug-Suit."

Irrelevant but noted. We have to find a way to extract ourselves.

Cassie had been through a lot to get this far. She was trapped on some alien world, possibly billions on billions of miles away from home. Her father and everyone she had ever cared about were all on Earth, possibly fighting the remnants of whichever invading force deemed her fit for this mess. She owed it to them to get out of there. She owed them at least that much.

"How about we shine some light on this situation? I can't do much like this. And if it's a fight these guys want, I wouldn't like to keep them waiting." With a single, shared thought, the two begin to change drastically, as the scarab begins to expand, tendrils reaching out from her spine. Such black legs stretch across her body, intertwining and weaving. Blue armour juts out from her with some sensation as her alien mail materialises and solidifies. Continuing up her neck, it ends in a familiar mask as the host tenses.

"It's uhh, business time."

How do you sleep at night?

"Better knowing that you're ground against my mattress all night."

How ever did I survive without you in my...

The train of thought careens off its tracks as the cell begins to change. Taking a darker shade of red and humming violently, the energy shield throbs with changed and invigored purpose. A loud, thumping klaxon can be heard as the shield fizzles away. It recedes down to little more than a transparent aura.

"...Did you do this? I feel like you had something to do with this." She asks, taken aback. A single prod confirms the expected: the barrier was gone.

Highly unlikely. Reason: I haven't actually done anything. Proceed with caution.

The horn dies down as the floor beneath them seems to shudder.

"Yeah, to hell with that..." She laughs, leaping out of the emptied sphere gleefully with a confident push, her arms stretching out as a pair of wings grow to catch her. As the cell decends behind her, she gracefully hovers toward the ground, turning her attention to those to her left and right. She grows increasingly aware that she's not the only one in there anymore.

Scans are picking up multiple lifeforms. Their energy signatures are... Perplexing. Advise that you neutralise them before they can cause any more harm to the host.

"Our priority is returning home. If I can help it, I'm not going to be playing into these guys' hands. It's possible whoever we're stuck in here with are in the same boat as us. You, know against their will?" She pauses briefly, biting her lip. "Or maybe they're just blood thirsty maniacs. Regardless. the less time we spend hanging around, the less likely we are to find out.

Suit yourself.

"Cheer up. I really thought this might be your scene. We got to see aliens. We're part of a gladiator match - a real one this time. It must be just like Christmas for you, you lunatic."

I cannot contain my joy. Searching for structural weaknesses.

This is going to be fun.

---

Pietro Maximoff knew the deal, he had gone through it more times than he could remember. Or want to remember, at least. It always started the same, with the six-armed women coming to see him in his personal dungeon - it seemed they kept all of their "guests" in solitary. She would inform him of the event he was to participate in, then they'd drug him with hypodermic needles concealed in the collar he wore, and subsequently wake inside a red, spherical force field. Pietro had found out the name of the woman a couple months into his captivity. The guards, though they weren't entirely chatty, would occasionally make mention of certain individuals. She in particular they called Spiral. He had learned fairly early on that Spiral was in charge of managing all the slaves for the "games" they would compete in. There was much Pietro had learned in his time on this world.

Like the fact that there were thousands, if not millions, of people of all races and species taken from their worlds and forced into slavery here. Pietro had discovered that when, after establishing himself as a contender by winning five of their death games, and each and every time after, they would escort him to the VIP area where he would be forced to watch his fellow slaves brutally slaughter one another just to survive another day on this sadistic world. It never ended. They held half a dozen games on average each time they brought him to watch. If he tried to avert his gaze, they would send an electrical current through his collar and shock him. The bastards got off on him watching it.

Pietro had also learned, after several months, that every slave here was from, not only a different world, but a different dimension. He didn't know how they accomplished it, not that it truly mattered, but one of the spectators in the VIP area - not another slave, this vaguely humanoid creature was a patron and audience member of the games- one day boasted about how he had bet on the strange bat-creature from an alternate universe. Pietro hadn't been sure if that was good news or bad. On one hand, his world was likely safe, having at first feared everyone on Earth had been abducted or slain. However, on the other hand, this meant he was not only on another world, but in a completely separate dimensional reality. She was safe, they hadn't gotten to her, but his hope of getting back to her had all but been crushed.

The final, and most important, fact he had learned, though, was who exactly had taken him. Who was behind all of this; the death matches, the ruthless so-called games, and vicious torture. His name was Mojo. The being in charge of it all, Spiral's boss, and Pietro's slave master. He had never met Mojo, nor even caught a glimpse, but Spiral had let slip once that Mojo would be pleased with one of his particular performances in an event. Mojo. It had to be the least threatening name for a maniacal, inter-dimensional overlord in Pietro's opinion, yet it sent chills up his spine every time he would recite it in his mind.

Nearly every single day, aside from the first month he had been brought here which, it seemed, was relegated to invasive and cruel testing periods, Pietro had been forced to run. Apparently Mojo's audience very much enjoyed to see speedsters competing in what they referred to as death races - events in which the subject would be forced to run for hours, unable to slow down unless they wished to be eviscerated by the laser grid following from behind, and all the while having to contend and deal with various, lethal traps that would spring up at random intervals. Their last speedster, Garrick, Pietro believed was his name, had run for over four years before succumbing to the race, stumbling, and ultimately failing for the last time. Which is where Pietro came in; a fresh replacement to be culled. They had designed him a fanciful costume, both to appeal to the audience and capture their attention, as well as prevent his clothing from burning up with the friction of his speed. They even gave him a "superhero" name, something else the viewers seemed to eat up gleefully. Quicksilver they called him. His shock of white hair had apparently inspired them to the name.

As Quicksilver, Pietro ran. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. He had tried to keep track of time in his cell, but it was nearly impossible to do for very long without knowing just how time flowed on this world, and he had lost track after what he thought was seven months. Each time he would run, Pietro recited one name in his head, over and over, a thousand times. Mojo. Mojo had taken him from his world, from her, and Pietro didn't entertain any foolish dreams of ever being able to return. He did, however, have one singular thought and desire constantly running through his mind. Kill Mojo. Pietro would play their games. He would survive, and win. He would do whatever it took to get his hands on that sadistic bastard.

Or so he had thought. Until today. Until now, when Pietro had woken up from the familiar drug-induced stupor and saw what was outside the red containment field. The long, winding and twisting track he had grown accustomed to over the months was gone, but something equally as recognizable and disturbing had taken its place. That gladiatorial coliseum Pietro had been forced to watch fellow slaves brutalize and murder each other in now stood before him. Or, rather, he stood in it, clearly intended to be one of its newest competitors. He had cursed upon waking to see this, as that bitch Spiral evidently had decided to withhold the information that anything was different about today's event. This was the first time in his entire captivity that he had ever been placed into an event aside from the death race, and for it to be this event... his mind was a blur of dangerous thoughts.

I'll have to. I've seen what they do in this game. They all act like they won't, but when they aren't given a choice they do it. They kill. They all do, or they die. Pietro smashed his fists against the force bubble, ignoring the burning pain. I'll have to. I can't outrun this. Not this time. Have to keep going. Have to stay alive. Have to get through this, and find Mojo. Kill him for everything he's done to me. For taking me away from her. For leaving her there with him.

It'll be easy, he told himself as the bubble began to glow and pulse, starting sirens wailing high above, and the platform creeping closer to the ground. Just run in and snap their neck. Make it fast. They won't feel a thing, won't know it happened. A mercy killing. I can do this. I have to. Just a quick little snap.

Nothing to it I can do this kill or be killed no choice left I can't die here I have to do this. Pietro's thoughts began to run together as his pulse quickened, adrenaline kicking in. He could feel his body tingle as the familiar rush of his power washed over him, his feet kicking out from beneath him as he launched himself off the pillar, strong leg muscles supporting and absorbing his landing.

He burst forward hitting sixty miles-per-hour in less than two seconds, feet a blur beneath him as he picked up speed. Weaving in and out of the ruins of the coliseum, and towards the closest pillar to his right; his mind racing just as fast as his body.

Havetodoithavetodoithavetodoitkillthemwinlivesurvivefindhimfindmojokillhimkillkillkill.

---

He missed his family. He missed his friends, his home and his bed. He missed the car horns that intruded his bedroom in the morning, and the cracked plasterboard that crumbled ever so slowly, speck by speck, particle by particle, from his ceiling. He missed the way Kate crinkled her nose when she woke up, as if it was a mild annoyance that she had to get out of bed. It crossed his mind how clichéd it was, but he missed her touch and her smile, and how she cupped her hands over her mouth when she laughed. He missed her and he missed Ganke, he missed Judge and he missed Kamala, he missed his Mom and he missed his Dad, but most of all, he missed his freedom. The freedom to swing from building to building with his webs, to look over Manhattan’s skyline from the top of the Empire State Building; to help people. To do some good.

Miles Morales missed it all. But as time continued to move by with each excruciatingly slow second, it became ever clearer that he would never be able to return home. The six-armed woman had made sure to tell him so. And yet, some hope still remained.

He had no idea how long he’d been captive in this place, or how many death games he’d been forced to participate in. All he knew is that they never ended. What time he didn’t spend in his cell was spent navigating labyrinths plunged into darkness, forced to rely on his spider-sense to survive, avoiding the deathtraps strewn across their corridors without so much as a torch. Sometime during the games, the floor would drop beneath him, leaving nothing but a black abyss, and he’d be forced to use his webs, his spider-sense telling him which surfaces along the ceiling and walls were safe to cling onto. One wrong choice and he would fall to his death.

One wrong choice, and he would never see Kate again.

The thought echoed through his mind as he awoke in what was becoming a frustratingly familiar red force field, dread swelling within him as he realised that he was about to be thrust into the death games yet again. His web-shooters were clasped onto his wrists, as they always were when he came to in the bubble, and with a curse he checked how many cartridges of web fluid he had left: two – the ones in the shooters, one full and one half empty. Dammit. He pinched his masked brow. Dammit, dammit, dammit. That wasn’t enough. It might last him for this course – might – but next time? He was a dead man. A dead, dead man.

It was fitting, he supposed. The man he was trying to honour, to succeed, was one of the greats; a hero of heroes, who lived and died as one. And who was Miles but the entire opposite? A coward who began to use his powers for the good of others not because he wanted to, not because he should, but because he felt guilty. Because he felt like he needed to make up for his mistakes. To die a coward’s death, running out of the one thing keeping him alive, was only fair.

“Don’t be an idiot, Miles,” Kate’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and passionate. “You think he would ever let himself think like that?”

She was right, of course. He wouldn’t.

What would Peter Parker do?

Miles stood up in his cage, expecting to be met with the same pitch blackness he always saw. But now it was replaced by light, and the labyrinth he was usually forced to traverse was not there; below him was an arena, a coliseum filled with alien structures made of rusted iron and crumbling stone, a sight that reminded him of those Hunger Games books Kamala always used to go on about. He strained his eyes. At distant areas of the arena were what looked like four other red spheres much like his own. If he had to guess, people like him were in there, slaves to their enigmatic captors, made to participate in sick games for an invisible audience’s enjoyment. Dread filled him anew as he realised what was happening. He was going to have to fight them. He was going to have to kill them.

Miles tensed as the cell began roar, lowering towards the ground at a steady speed. The red bubble pulsated in rhythm with a siren that pierced his ears. Miles braced himself, waiting for the moment it would fade.

What would Peter Parker do?

He would hang back. He would observe. He wouldn’t throw himself towards any danger unless it was absolutely necessary, unless it was life or death.

The force field faded, and so did Miles, the light that reflected off of his costume blending him into his surroundings.

Okay, Miles. Just don’t get yourself killed.

---

It’s starting again.

Lorna Dane had been in this insufferable prison for sixty-seven days— sixty-seven days of pure disdain, loneliness, fear, doubt, anxiety, and utter hatred. She had been put through several of these “bouts” incited for the sick entertainment of her captors and it never changed how she felt. Even with knowing that she had to survive, she felt her morals struggling to stay with her as the person she was slowly fading away. Before being thrown into the event that would be today's “entertainment” that led to her facing down danger she hadn’t ever thought about using her powers to kill and even when it came to the situation where she had to back home she swore to herself that she would only do it as a last resort and to protect others. She was going to betray herself— she was going to betray her family and what they stood for.

Pietro would be so proud.

She looked down to the ground for a moment, thinking of how she must’ve looked to her teachers and family if they could see her now. She had to center herself— she knew that. Thinking in melancholy would only lead to her being a casualty in this awful prison and for her father to lose all of his children to unforeseen circumstances would end him and crush his spirit; she couldn’t imagine what he was going through right now back home not knowing what happened. She had to survive and show that unlike Wanda and Pietro she would be there at his side to persevere and rebuild the school with him. She may have been one of the youngest of the enslaved but she refused to be another casualty.

She let out a heavy sigh, she couldn’t keep torturing herself with these thoughts. Thinking in such a way would only lead to her death and then it would be impossible to see how things turned out after what had happened in Genosha. Because in Lorna’s mind there was always a optimistic answer— there had to be some possibility, however small, to leave this place and return to her world. Because to never give up and achieve the unachievable was a value that her teacher, Jean Grey, had taught her; and if she had to kill others to live to see her friends, family, and planet again she couldn’t fail. She wouldn’t fail.

The force-field in front of her began to fade into nothing, her eyes scanning the environment before she committed to the battle that was soon to come. She didn’t expect this to be a fight that would be easy to survive, nor did she presume just because she survived on her world meant that it’d be a simple victory here.

It's never a simple victory.

The thought of a bloody fight brought her back to a few months ago— her enemy whom the other students had dubbed “The Overlord” had tracked down their hideaways in the last moments of the war they had been fighting and it was an all or nothing gamble. Whilst the older students and teachers pushed his fortress in Genosha, here she was back against the wall protecting who was left and in the end one of her friends painted the walls beside her as a feral mutant with jagged teeth and lifeless eyes came at her. His name was Victor Creed.

He was her first kill.

She took another sigh to clear her nerves before opening her eyes, both of her hands drawing her green hair back into a tight ponytail.

I'm sorry. I have to.

Narrowing her brows, she took her first step onto the field.

---

Unbeknownst to those in the closed-off arena, the roar of the crowd dies down, settling into an apprehensive silence as the warriors grudgingly take their places on the battleground. The gladiators' frames, however large they might appear up close, are dwarfed by the sheer scope of their surroundings. Lifeless monoliths reaching high and statues of spectres long since past jut throughout the landscape. Yet life still finds a form in which to subsist here; withered, ruddy grass sprouts in the gaps afforded to them by the cracked floor and strewn tile. One can not divorce the feeling that those plants had collectively seen more death and borne witness to more suffering than the most prolific of serial killers. And yet the silence drones on. That wouldn't do. As Cassie Lang takes her first steps into the absurd, she moves to keep her spirits high.

"What do you think, Bug-Suit? I don't see anyone coming to us. Time for us to get this show on the road?" The Scarab is momentarily silent.

The action is not entirely unviable. Proceed.

Cassie shrugs at her companion's glowing approval.

“That's the spirit.” She looks forward to a particularly large chunk of debris, not more than fifty feet away from her at present, sizing it up in her head. Outstretching her arms rigidly as she hunkers down for stability, the armor surrounding her livens up some in response to some telepathic command. Her arms transform with a metallic whirr, her human appendages contorting and expanding mechanically, joining together with a click as they assume the shape of a large, clunky cannon. Wider than her form, the weapon boast considerable heft in contrast to the supported but slight form its wielder; Cassie takes a few seconds to retake her footing as a low-humming blue glow fills the the barrel. It's ready.

“Let's make some noi--”

Cassie's cold-cut quip is starkly interrupted as a barrage of energy hurtles through their stupefied vessel . The bolts, temerarious in the face of her order, almost miss their intended target, blindsiding the column but causing a raucous noise regardless. At this second, her mind turns to the spectators that must be crammed in to watch every detail of fights like this. Cassie wonders what the appeal for watching such a sport could be. Hell, she wanted to know how you got tickets. Somehow, she didn't see it being something advertised in a kind of inter-dimensional Craigslist.

“I'd say that should have drawn someone's attention. Are you reading anything?”

I'm reading everything. Host should be more specific.

"I don't know. Anything new on the half-dozen or so metahumans we're trapped in here with? Something useful like that?"

Nothing to report.

“God... It's like pulling teeth talking to you sometimes." She retorts, aloof.

Fail to see how...

"I'm sure you'll keep me in the loop when it becomes necessary.” She cuts off. Breaking into a walk, the cannon dissolves in a fashion, her arms regrowing in record fashion. She shakes her right hand, wincing.

“Arm's fallen asleep.” She grimaces, chuckling slightly as the sensation returns. As they make it to the newly fashioned rubble, she breaks into a run, her right foot connecting with a loose chunk with a kick.

“Yeah, you better run...” Her head turns almost automatically a few degrees south.

“Hey, what gives?--”

Assailant at flank. Immediate response required. Superseding host. Preparing countermeasures.

“Bugsuit, I can't see a--”

The air seemingly ripples as a figure moving at great speed turns towards them. He would be on them in an instant. In a flash, a jetpack, wings and two arm-mounted cannons materialize, with some screeching of armored plates. The figure comes into view as Cassie is involuntarily flung into the air as the thrusters at her back push off and force flight. As this happens, an arsenal of blue energy is deployed towards the ground and this hostile actor. A scatter-shot, a handful of bolts make nest in the target before fizzling out, causing apparent physical stress. The streak's body visually pauses. This leaves a small window for the Scarab.

Preparing trajectile response.

“Trajectuh... No, no! Stop! He's down!” She shouts aloud as control of her body floods back. She stops, looking at the silver-topped, still moving figure. "Uh, he was down?..." A noticeably more nervous smile takes her face by surprise. "Talk to me..."

Barrage was not intended to be lasting solution. Open to suggestions.

“For the speedy guy? You want me to--”

Host takes offence to lethal approach; Host can take control. Will be watching intently.

"Right... Okay..." Cassie jumps into a defensive stance. "Okay..."

A spark of confidence lights in her chest.

"Yeah, alright..." She turns her attention to the decidedly more vertical mutant, meeting his apparent glare with a cocked eyebrow.

“Bring it, Just-For-Men.”

Fists clenched, she readies herself, fixing in place in the air.

Peaceful thoughts.

---

Lorena continued down the path she had chosen from her starting point, heading left and staying as close to the perimeter wall as possible. With all the ruins and partially destroyed structures that blocked pathways or formed new ones, the arena very much resembled an ancient maze that twisted in towards the center. It brought back memories of the catacombs beneath Atlantis, and one of Lor's earliest battles against the immortal sorcerer Kordax, a former denizen of Atlantis before it had sunk to the bottom of the sea.

In that encounter she had inadvertently become trapped inside the catacombs after a youthful exploration of her new home, and had discovered the elderly man beneath. If it weren't for the timely intervention of Lady Mera, Lor would have perished there against the long-gone-mad Atlantean. As it were, she was left with a very painful scar, albeit one that didn't leave a physical mark; Lorena Marquez was not comfortable with enclosed spaces, and although this colosseum was incredibly large and expansive, the knowledge that she was trapped in here did not resonate well with her or those memories. But Lor was also calm, and collected. Her time training with King Orin and Lady Mera had provided her with great mental poise, and she had yet to face a challenge during her time as Aquagirl that she had shaken her internal fortitude.

So, as she walked down her chosen path, she was scanning the outer wall for defects. Any chinks or signs of structural stress. Lor had been running her hands across the surface, palm flat against the wall, feeling for even the slightest crack or dent. Surprisingly, she had found the wall was not metallic, as she had first believed seeing it from far away, but that it appeared to be made of some sort of stone. At least, it felt like stone to her, and not at all like the purified material that would be used to craft a sturdy metal wall. It was of a strange, grey-blue hue, and slightly cool to the touch. Every so often she'd find slight scorch marks present, mostly higher up just out of reach, obviously left over from past matches, but despite walking for some minutes now, Lor had found not a single imperfection in the wall's structure.

Odd, she thought. There are clear signs of battles waged here, but no damage visible to any of the outer wall. Either whoever maintains this arena repairs the damage before the next matches are fought, or whatever this material is is of considerable durability.

Lor stopped now, facing the wall to scrutinize it more closely. It would make sense that the arena would be constructed of material much stronger than stone, or even metal, she considered, given the magnitude of power those of us held captive likely possess. It would not do for them to allow us escape so easily. Still...

She closed her eyes and focused, pushing her senses past her body, and spreading her awareness. Although Lor was only a pseudo-Atlantean, she possessed the signature ability all Atlantean-blooded creatures shared on her world; hydrokinesis. With it, she could affect and control water in a myriad of ways, and she had been personally trained by Lady Mera - the strongest hydrokinetic Atlantis had ever seen - in its arts. Unfortunately, there were no bodies of water present in this forsaken arena, as she naturally would have felt the draw of any lakes, rivers, or seas even miles away the moment she came to consciousness. However, any truly skilled hydrokinetic was never without a source of water. As Lorena concentrated, she began to, slowly at first but more rapidly with every passing second, pull to her the very moisture in the air. There wasn't much around her given they were indoors, and even the ground was made from the grey-blue material, but despite the general low humidity there would be just enough for Lorena's purposes.

As Lor drew the water vapor to her, she directed it towards her right hand, collecting it around her balled-up fist until it was enveloped in a thin-coating. She concentrated more, packing the molecules of the water closer together to increase the density, effectively "hardening" the water into something vastly more solid than ice. It was a common technique for hydrokinetics, and would normally be mere child's play for Lorena under normal circumstances, but both the facts that she hadn't been submerged in water for a month and thus wasn't at her peak, and the very little amount of moisture she had to work with made it necessary for her to focus more than usual.

Due to her Atlantean powers coming from a transfusion of King Orin's royal blood, her physical abilities were not of the same levels of full-blooded warriors, and never would be. Though she was still magnitudes stronger than any human could ever hope to be, she wasn't capable of matching the sheer force of a strike from her King, or even Lady Mera. However, Lor had long ago devised her own technique, utilizing the super-dense water to aid the power of her own attacks, amplifying the force of her blows to levels even her King could not achieve, if she had ample enough water to manipulate. Though the pitiful amount she had managed to gather wasn't even close to those levels, it would, at the very least, she estimated, double the impact of her punch.

Ready now, Lorena's eyes opened, narrowing on a section of wall just below a blackened scorch mark. She took an appropriate stance; left foot leading, right foot back, and body rotated so she was at an angle to the wall. Her strong arm was brought back, tensed up, parallel with her waist. As she thrust forward, Lor pivoted her hips, adding to the momentum of her swing as she brought her fist around to connect with the wall, putting all the strength she could muster into a singular blow. The force of her punch colliding with the stone-like surface caused a loud "thud" to resound throughout the arena, echoing through the connecting labyrinth passages around her, and the thin layer of water she had used to enhance her strike dissipated in a light mist upon contact with the wall.

Lor looked on, perturbed, but not surprised to see the wall still standing as sturdy as ever. That was to be expected. She was, however, surprised, to see that there wasn't so much as a scratch made on the surface itself. No dent, no thin spider-web cracks crawling away from the spot of impact. She may not have had full Atlantean strength, but even without enhancing her strikes through hardened water she was more than capable of shattering stone with her punches, and there should have at least been some sort of indication that her attack on the structure had even occurred in the first place.

Blast! Lor cursed this new revelation. I am not at my strongest, but that should have had some effect. Just what is this made of? She asked herself, once more running her fingers across the somewhat rough, but cool surface.

With her primary method of escape being exhausted, Lor decided it was time to explore another. Turning from the wall, she looked out towards the nearest pillar - the structures that she and the other intended slave combatants began atop of - and began making her way in its direction.

If I do not possess the means for escape, perhaps another does.

---

Racing through the labyrinthian coliseum at just over one hundred miles per hour, Pietro dashed between crumbled statues of strange, alien beings and narrow pathways overgrown with rotting vines. Due to his abilities, despite traveling at such a speed, Pietro's mind was capable of enhanced perception, able to see his surroundings at a rate proportionate to that of a leisurely light jog. As such, he thoroughly scanned the ground ahead, and the walls around him. From his extensive time in Mojo's death races, Pietro was wary of any traps ready to be triggered and claim his life at any moment, but the more he ran without spotting any the more confident he grew that this forced match between slaves was meant to be conducted in its simplest form, without external dangers, and through sheer murderous brutality.

The arena, a near-perfect cube with curved walls, stretched for a roughly a mile in every direction. Even with the maze-like structure, it took Pietro just under forty seconds to travel from the pillar he began at to the next pillar on his right - the span of the entire length of the building. He was planning to do a wide arc around the pillar to search for whomever had been deployed there, but soon found this unnecessary as a very small explosion sounded out from several paths ahead of him. Zipping through the tight walkways, Pietro rounded a corner and spotted his target.

Standing just behind a chunk of demolished pillar, a dust cloud scattered about, stood an odd individual. Short and not all too physically imposing, the figure was clad in some kind of full-body black and blue armor carapace that reminded Pietro of a bug. It was difficult to glean all that much information as the slender, armored form offered few clues as to their identity or skills. Their back was turned to Pietro, however, and he was sure he could reach them before they ever noticed his presence.

Sorry. Have to do this. Have to get out. Pietro would forgive himself later for what he was about to do, but there was no other choice, no other way out. It was him, or them. It was the safety of the one he had left behind, or the life of a stranger. There was only one path for Pietro to take.

Just then the armored figure reacted, somehow alerted to Pietro's presence, and rather quickly considering how fast Pietro was rushing towards them, they took to the air as insect-like wings materialized. Simultaneously, a burst of blue energy bolts fired from the end of their arms and struck around and at Pietro. Despite his increased speed and reflexes, he had been too close at the time they were fired to dodge with any success. Several of the concussive blasts hit Pietro dead on, and he skidded to a stop. And although they had carried a degree of force behind them, the attack had barely fazed Pietro; the light grey-blue aura that protected him from the strains of high-speed movements also shielding him from the impact.

Before being captured, Pietro had been unfamiliar with the use of his powers, and while in captivity, although he had been forced to observe as other powered slaves killed one another, he had never in his life faced another being with enhanced abilities. And so he stood below the flying figure, curiously observing as they spoke aloud to, seemingly, themself. The figure, as best Pietro could tell given all of their features were hidden behind armor, seemed to be unsure and hesitant about fighting. Either out of fear, or due to the naive belief that no one had to die, Pietro didn't care. He couldn't allow himself to care; not anymore.

Pumping his legs again, Pietro zipped off, running back down the passageway he had come through. He wasn't sure how, but it was clear his first opponent had been able to see him coming despite his speed, and had been quick enough to react accordingly. Running through the narrow passages, the young silver-haired man circled around in a wide arc, picking up speed. The surroundings weren't optimal for him to reach even close to his peak limits - too tight and enclosed - but by looping around Pietro afforded himself the time and space necessary to increase his pace to higher levels. At a mere 120 MPH before, the armored being had only barely noticed and reacted to his presence in enough time to avoid him. This time he wouldn't give them that chance.

Only a scant minute after he had left, Pietro once more ran down the same path leading towards his target, able to still see the blue bug-like being floating in the air. Rushing forward at more than double the speed as before, Pietro enclosed on them. Placing his right foot on top of the rubble from earlier, he pushed off, catching the wall with his left and angling himself perfectly as he jumped towards the flying figure. Right arm outstretched to connect surely with their armored face, the force of Pietro's blow to be greatly enhanced due to both momentum and the barely-visible, incredibly durable aura that enveloped his entire being.

---

As Miles crept towards what sounded distinctly like dangerous weaponry being discharged, it crossed his mind that if he wanted to stay alive, it probably wasn’t the best idea. Crouched low amid the alien shrubbery of the arena, he silently questioned his decision to find the source of the noise. How could he possibly know what kind of person awaited him? As far as he knew, it could have been a trap, set to draw in any overly-curious, unsuspecting victims that may be stupid enough to walk to their deaths with their arms spread wide, yelling, “HEY, OVER HERE!”

That he was invisible gave him little comfort. Superhumans came with a variety of powers and abilities, and while most didn’t notice him, there were those that, through whatever means, could detect his presence. On his second night as Spider-Man, he’d been waiting for the right time to disrupt a drug deal in the Bronx, perched comfortably on the rafters of a not at all sketchy warehouse. He was invisible to all of the criminals present – that is, to all but one. He still wasn’t sure whether the guy was a mutant or not, but somehow – enhanced smell, hearing, eyesight, whatever – he spotted Miles. Yes, Miles’ spider-sense helped him leave the ensuing scuffle without so much as a scratch, but now, in an arena with four other superpowered, most likely more experienced people, the thought of banking on it to save his ass didn’t exactly fill him with confidence.

Who knows, he thought, Maybe they’re friendly.

He stopped in his tracks as a blue figure came into view. Clad in what looked like armour of the alien kind, it flew into the air, blasters – the weapons he’d heard earlier – firing onto a blur his eyes could barely keep track of. The blasts stopped the blur in its tracks, but only for a few seconds; breaking into a run once more, it disappeared from view amid the tangle of structures it had come from. After what felt like a minute at most, it dashed once more into his line of sight, even more difficult to follow than before.

Watching from what he felt was a safe distance, Miles grimaced. Okay. Maybe not.