At the prompting of the taunting gunshots, Pithy rushed out of the ruined barracks in time to see the honey badger that had caused her so much trouble dive into an alleyway behind the stack of boxes it had used as cover only a few minutes prior. Pithy ran to the mouth of the alley, momentarily pausing to glance at the discarded fast shooters.

Empty, she assumed. Still, the sight of them made her hesitate. Had the hatted badger sprinkled the area with similar surprises for her? It was such a thought that prompted her not to dismiss her barrier of ice this time, the object obediently hovering behind her. How did it even get the chance to prepare like this? Was it dropped inside an armory?

Until then, her small enemy had been following an illuminated path that had made its route predictable and made ambushes difficult, but in the darker alleyways, with her night vision ruined by the artificial lights all over the area, Pithy would be forced to follow along the same trail, giving her enemy ample opportunities to surprise her.

It was then that an outraged shriek sounded out from ahead, followed by a crack of thunder.

Pithy instantly set herself on the path at a run, berating herself for wasting time. The frenzied encounters had made her forget, but there had been a cloud of bats trying to get at the badger when she had first come across it. It would likely be too busy fending off the black wings to properly lay in ambush. There was a reason her enemy had avoided the dark spaces between buildings until then. Which means that if it’s using them now, it must have a destination it wishes to reach quickly.

By the time Pithy caught up with her foe, she had been proven right. After a few twists, turns, furious screeches, explosive rapports and winged corpses, the alley opened, letting a building many times larger than most of its surrounding brethren into view. It was largely featureless beyond its size, and had what seemed like large, sealed entrances at its front, where a large space was empty and illuminated. It was along the side of the building that Pithy saw a more familiar door, along with the small, furry figure of the hatted badger running towards it. Pithy wasted no time chasing after it.

The badger reached the door first, shouldering it open—the lock had been destroyed before-hand, Pithy realized—and pausing to make a rude gesture with its paw at her.

“Come get me, honky b—” That was as far as the foul-mouthed critter got before a blast of wind slammed the door inwards and sent the badger flying into the building.

Pithy strode to the door, moving her barrier to her front and summoning a pair of ice blades to flank her. The lights inside the building rapidly came on as she set foot within, revealing rows upon rows of storage racks. However, the woman’s eyes were quickly drawn to the hatted animal staggering to its hind-legs.

Its teeth were bared in an expression Pithy took to be a smile. An aggravating one. “Damn, girl, where you holding out on—” The blades hovering at Pithy’s side shot forward, forcing the badger to shoot at one and duck under the other. The sharpshooter quickly dove through an empty pallet to another corridor, leaving Pithy’s line of sight.

Pithy held a hand back, pressing it against the destroyed lock of the door she had walked in from. Is this why you led me here? Wished to settle in a place with enough cover to hide behind? Fine, but there will be no more running away. A short moment later ice affixed the broken door to its doorframe.

But now the badger was out of sight, though the lack of claws skittering over the stone floor in the silence made her think it had not moved far. Waiting to strike in ambush, perhaps.

Pithy’s rapier glowed as several crystal spheres formed around her. She threw them over the pallets, and with an effort of will, the crystal shattered into a rain of sharpened shards.

Pithy heard a hissed curse and the badger dove out from the end of the racket row Pithy stood on. Guns blared, but Pithy moved in time to intercept the projectiles with her barrier.

A third shot cracked against the metal rack behind Pithy, and a sudden pain on the back of her left shoulder made her stumble, but before her enemy could press the advantage, another half-dozen spheres had formed behind her.

This skirmish with the foul-mouthed badger had dragged on for long enough to irritate Pithy, and as it had always done for the mage, anger threw matters into cold relief. The critter had said so itself, had it not? Not fast enough and not plenty enough. If that was its wish, Pithy would accommodate her. But while Pithy could sustain her assault for as long as her body did not give out, her enemy was limited to the projectiles that fit its weapons.

A few of the spheres, smaller as they were compared to the ones she had used in their first encounter, exploded into mist besides her, others were simply pushed back by what Pithy quickly realized was the bouncing ammunition. The rest shattered into cones of shrapnel directed at the shooter.

The badger dove out of the way, but before it could attempt a counterattack, another crystal ball rolled up to the corner. Pithy heard a curse and the scrabbling of claws on stone just before the crystal exploded. Pithy steadily strode forward, ignoring the shards that clattered against her barrier as she summoned more crystal spheres around her.

At first the sound of gunfire joined the sound of ice breaking like glass, but the rapid, thunderous sound of the badger’s six-shooters soon tapered off as the small beast struggled to juggle destroying the spheres, load new bullets into her weapons as well as jumping into cover to avoid the shrapnel she could not get rid of.

There were no taunts coming from the badger now.

Pithy made sure to toss the occasional exploding crystal ahead of where the badger attempted to flee, corralling it in. At times, she simply left them without detonating them as leftover hazards to activate should the enemy attempt to flee her. If the badger had hidden weapons in this area, she either could not reach them due to Pithy’s persistent assault, or understood that she needed the ability to rapidly shoot the spheres down to make openings for itself. Those that did explode or were destroyed by the badger’s shooters left behind a smattering of mist that soon enough began to cover the area in fine diamond dust. The enemy had chosen this territory for their battle, but with a sustained effort of will, Pithy was turning it into her own.

Here and there she came across droplets of fresh blood, evidence that some of the shards had hit their mark. The continuing struggle made it clear that these were flesh wounds at best, but she knew this could not continue for long.

Perhaps realizing that things would only turn bleaker if she continued to run, Trickshot Jo took that moment to make her move.

The badger jumped out of the way of another rain of shrapnel onto a pallet, hiding behind a crate and aiming along its side with her shooter.

Pithy pulled her shield in front of her as she had done before. She did not fear being struck by another bouncing projectile. She had stopped seeing them once the badger realized they could not break the spheres.

Thunder cracked, but this shot was not aimed at her.

The bullet struck at one of the legs supporting a loaded rack, and the metal dented. Pithy heard more than saw the metal groan and bend as the weight it supported was thrown out of balance.

One crate, large enough to fully fill the pallet it was stored on, slid and began to fell, forcing Pithy to backpedal in order to avoid being crushed. The crate smashed itself on the ground, sending splinters flying. The rack’s own fall was stopped when it crashed onto one of its neighbors, the sudden stop sending its contents sliding down its side.

Pithy continued to back away, forced to lift her barrier to avoid the detritus. Just as she cleared the pallet, she caught sight of the badger again. It was at the top of one of the racks, and had just hoisted a large, tubular object larger than the critter itself over one shoulder. It staggered more than turned to aim it in her direction, and the open hole at the end of the weapon reminded her vividly of a cannon.

The vicious glint in the critters eyes reaffirmed her instinctual thought that a barrier would not be enough to stop that weapon.

So she swept her rapier forward and sent out a hastily formed blast of wind at the badger.

The small animal tipped back under the force of the wind, throwing her aim wide just as it pressed the trigger, and the rocket sailed over Pithy. It crashed against a mound of containers behind her, the explosion sending her to her knees. And then there was another explosion.

Pithy felt the heat on her back and the wave of pressure picking her up for one weightless moment before she was slammed against the collapsed rack.

Her vision went dark.

---

She could not have been unconscious for more than a few seconds, but when she came to, the relative silence of the facility had been replaced by the ululating sound of a siren. Water was sprinkling down from above even though the last time she had looked, she had been inside a building.

But it is dark, she mused, slowly trying to piece together her thoughts. She recalled the weapon the badger had levelled at her, along with the ensuing explosion. Did that break the lights? Feeling her face, she groggily realized that her hair had been matted down by the water and was covering her good eye. She parted it, hissing as she touched what felt like a warm gash on her scalp, and studied her surroundings. The lights in the immediate vicinity had indeed gone out, but the light coming from the flaming wreckage behind her, along with lights from further within the building were enough to see by.

That explosive must have hit something flammable…

Water streamed down from the ceiling, a system clearly set in place to combat incidents such as this one, but whatever had caught on flames was rapidly catching on to other crates despite the rain. Pithy herself was in a nook between collapsed racks. If a gunshot from the badger had been enough to topple one, she imagined the explosion would have done better.

She counted herself lucky not to have been crushed as she crawled out from the crevice and gathered her feet under her. Her rapier was only a short distance away, and she quickly grabbed it.

From between gaps in the collapsed pallets, she caught sight of the large entrances she had seen before, now open. She set out towards them, knowing that any second spent in the flaming storehouse might meet her with another explosion. She was not eager to learn how many of those containers held something that would gleefully detonate when in contact with fire.

---

Metal surfaces slid and clicked against each other, bullets falling neatly into place in their chambers. Joanne Schrodinger hunched outside of the building, leaning against a wall as she reloaded her weapons with a practiced paw. The sirens blared from the storehouse she had just left, nurturing her growing headache.

These people’s toys were destructive, if nothing else. Not as elegant or as comfortable as her own revolvers, not by far, but the experience had been something. At least until the honky bitch had turned on the heat on her.

Or whatever the opposite o’that would be.

Blood ran down from several small cuts she had suffered, most concentrated in the limbs she had had to use to cover her vitals as she tried to escape the exploding crystals.

Should’ve killed the bitch quick instead of having her give me the run around, she reflected, but quickly dismissed the thought.

Trickshot Jo was not one for regrets. Better to go out and fix the damn problem than to sit back thinking on it. She intended to do just that. She had managed to find the switch that opened the big sliding doors at the front of the warehouse and stepped out for air. Now, with her guns reloaded, she would go back inside, find the ice woman and pop a cap on her while she wasn’t looking.

She turned around to see the woman only a few meters away. Her rapier was raised and one hand was aglow, another of those stupid shields forming in front of her. This was the end of the contest. Jo had been seen first.

But the trickshot was a quickshot as well. Her guns raised as though of their own volition and the hammers struck down. The bullets slammed against the barrier, sending a spiderweb of cracks running down its surface.

This one’s weak! she crowed in her mind. It did not matter why, as long as she could break through it.

But just as she cocked the hammers back down, blades formed at the woman’s side and launched themselves at Joanne. Acute reflexes honed by life as an acrobat and sharpshooter had her jumping up, letting one blade sail under her even as she fired a bullet into the other one.

Still in the air, she aimed another shot at the shield. This time, the crystal surface shattered, letting her see the woman behind it even as she cocked the hammer on her other revolver. She couldn’t comprehend what she saw.

How can this bitch be this stupid?

The woman had a six-shooter on her hand, the one she had embarrassed herself with earlier, and it was leveled straight at the Trickshot.

This sealed the deal. Victory was hers. The woman might fire, but she would miss. A wasted effort. Unimpeded, Jo’s next bullet would find the ice woman’s head, sealing her defeat and taking care of one of her Captain’s foes.

And yet, in the moment before she pulled the trigger, she saw something unnerving in the woman’s blue bombardier’s eye.

---

Fire erupted from both weapons.

As all except perhaps she expected, Pithy’s head whipped back, and the woman tumbled to the ground.

The badger landed messily, the six-shooters falling from her paws. As it rolled itself to lay facing up on the pavement, it exposed a large, bleeding hole on her gut, where much of the stomach and intestines would normally be. The revolver, made for big-game hunting, had wrought havoc on the small animal’s body, and it left it facing up on the ground, conscious, but breathing laboriously.

The winged drone hovered closer, almost uncertainly. This was not an ideal outcome, to say the least. If both combatants died together, what would become of the project? All that the College had set in motion could not be undone by a single stroke of rotten luck, could it?

And then, the body of the elf shivered. The drone distanced itself slightly as the woman slowly picked herself up, revolver still in one hand, rapier on the other.

Once she had her feet under her, Pithy slowly walked to the mortally wounded badger, pausing only to look down at it.

The glazing orbs of the shooter’s eyes regained some focus, fixing on her. It coughed painfully in its woman’s voice. “That revolver is too damn big for you… girl. Heh… done in by… fu… done in by beginner’s luck…” it wheezed. “How are you standing? I got you. I saw it get you.”

Silently, Pithy parted her hair, revealing the mask of ice covering the right side of her face. Where her eye would be, there was a crack, with a darker mound sticking out of it. Pithy dug at it with the tip of her sword, letting the smashed bullet fall to the ground. She did not need to hear the crackling of forming ice to know the fracture was repairing itself before the badger’s eyes.

She had been saved by the affliction she wished to remove. The irony was not lost on her.

It did not matter. Pithy had long ago learned that she could not afford to be overly fastidious. As for the stunt with the gun, that, too, had been the best idea she could come up with in the moment, and it had been a gamble. Neither was that something new. Nearly a half-century ago, Pithy had gambled with her life in a much deeper sense. She had done so numerous times since then.

Some might even say that the original wager is still ongoing. What is this in the face of that?

“Heh.” The badger’s gaze dropped to the bullet on the ground. “A freak… with freaky luck.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“I ain’t no freak. Don’t… make me laugh... I’ll cough stuff up.” The badger’s eyelids began to droop, and she looked past Pithy and into the sky. You could not see stars in that sky, hidden as they were by the lights below. Slowly, in the wings of a deep, struggling breath, its paws reached towards its bandoliers. “Nobody tell'im I said so, but it's the least I can do... for my cap'n. All I know is I ain’t waiting for this to take me.”

Pithy stepped back, bringing up her cloak to cover her face as lightning arched from the ammunition in the badger’s body.

The distinct stench of seared meat filled her nostrils a moment later, and she looked down at the corpse of her enemy. Smoke rose from the bandolier, and Pithy could see the projectiles that had been detonated. Its eyes were still open, unseeing, and its expression struck Pithy as one of intense agony. Or it could have been a dark satisfaction. She was too unfamiliar with the creature’s features to tell those apart.

A last ditch effort to take me with it? The blasted animal could not even die properly. Not all the dying had a chance to leave any last words to one who would hear them. So be it. If the beast had chosen to eschew a solemn end for a painful one, that was its prerogative.

Pithy sheathed her weapons and knelt over the badger, snatching the phylactery from its breast. It seemed to be inactive, but Pithy might still be able to learn something of use with it.

Then, she took one of the animal’s revolvers in her hand. It is a good name for these weapons. She spun it around, letting the cylinder containing its ammunition open, and compared them to those held by the one she had found. Pithy frowned. Wrong size.

She stole a glance at the ammunition still intact in the badger’s bandolier, then thought against it. The badger’s weapons could have come in handy, but she was too unfamiliar with the weaponry to make proper use of the animal’s strange ammunition. She left the weapons where she found them.

Instead, she once again turned her examination to the animal’s body and, after a moment’s consideration, took the small shooter also hanging from the beast’s neck.

With that, she tied the chains of both necklaces, the one with the gun and the one with the heart, to her belt.

The woman stood. She was drenched from head to toe. Blood was seeping from her scalp onto her cheek, and she could feel bruises forming under her clothes. This fight had been more exhausting than she had expected, though considering the badger’s skill with its chosen armament, the fact that she had escaped the debacle with only minor wounds was quite the feat in itself.

Still, the idea of enduring similar fights one after the other did not fill her with confidence. She wondered if there was medicine and food to be found in this facility. Would I even recognize it as such?

“How odd of you to wait, announcer,” she called out dryly to the drone still hovering nearby. “The badger is dead. What now?”

“That shield of yours! What a marvelous piece of engineering.”

Cyril raised an eyebrow, obscured though it was beneath his visor. For a moment he wondered if his opponent was going to go off on a monologue; that would be perfectly fine by him, as he already felt -much to his annoyance- a trace of haggardness in his breath. When the inventor's machines sprang into action the next moment, his hopes were dashed, but as it turned out he wasn't spared Jokaero's speech either. “It's been quite the problem. Deflecting attack after attack...it's almost like you don't want me to get my wish! I'll have you know that poor manners won't get you far with me.” He paused as the first robot's knife arm clanged off Cyril's shield, and smiled. The moment its first arm was obstructed, the machine unfurled a second, and is reached around the vanguard's defenses to sink its blade into his exposed neck. Recognizing the threat, Cyril raised his good leg and intercepted the incoming blade with his greave, then kicked outward. Deficient in stabilizing servos, the robot tumbled backward, and over it clambered a second, bipedal one. This one looked unstable, judging by the various flashing lights across its surface, and with reckless abandon it leaped straight at Cyril. He thrust with his glaive and speared straight through its plastic torso.

“Aw, I liked that one. This heartless slaughter...brings a tear to me eye!” The third approached, and much like he had moments ago, Cyril swung his encumbered weapon at it. To his surprise, the rickety-looking machine dodged backward, and the increased weight of the halberd extended his swipe far enough to leave him open. Dutifully, the nimble robot hopped forward, and from its chest two makeshift missiles burst out to explode against the armor on Cyril's right side, hip, and shoulder. The impact and the heat made him gasp in pain and surprise, staggering. At that moment the contraption he'd impaled began to glow, a hissing sound escaping from its middle. The knight, flummoxed by what was going on, could only guess that it was preparing some sort of attack and acted accordingly. He swung his halberd with wild, panicked strength, and the bipedal machine flew right off. It sailed toward a nearby mailbox, but before it even got there it exploded in a cloud of vapor, sending shrapnel everywhere. Scraps of metal clanged off Cyril's shield as he steadied his breathing. The remaining robot, having spent its payload, dashed toward him and grabbed his leg, but couldn't budge him.

Jokaero would not let his opponent rest. Having spent next to no energy so far, he approached Cyril as a fresh fighter. Chuckling, he leveled the doohickey in his arms at the knight and caused it to shoot forth a cylinder of metal in an arc, attached to the launcher by a cord. Cyril, never one to fix what wasn't broken, positioned his shield to block it, but on contact the launcher sent an electrical jolt through him that tore a cry of agonized rage from his lungs. “Alright, that's it! You want lethal? You got lethal.” The weapon, like a crossbow, appeared to have expended its one shot. Cyril tensed his muscles and launched forward into a sprint, teeth gritted. “C'mon!”

“Not quite. Checkmate!” Jokaero flicked a switch on his weapon, and a spark traveled down the cord into the amp at its end. Without any warning it detonated in a spray of electricity, close enough to send power coursing through the forgotten robot still attached to Cyril's leg, as well as the leg itself. Conducted by the metal he wore and the construct, the shock caused his muscles to convulse and then go slack. The inventor saw him start to fall, and whipped out a little pistol. It hummed with energy, a green glare lighting in the container on its back. “And here's the big one!”

Cyril's armor shone, and with hundreds of pounds of force he slammed into Jokaero head-on. “Buh!” He garbled, and in his surprise he discharged his pistol's laser into the sky before it flew from his hand. He hit the pavement, and the next second, Cyril landed on top of him. Before Jokaero could so much as condescend to him the knight punched him in the face. His helmet gave a resounding crack, but it held. Unable to use his halberd at this range, Cyril dropped it and whaled on his enemy with both hands. Indecipherable gurgles of pain escaped the helmet as it was struck again and again. Cyril, possessed by the feeling that he had the advantage, abandoned his technique to raise both of his arms above his head in order to deliver the finishing blow. Before he knew what was happening, a cloud of noxious purple gas exploded beneath him, and he stumbled backward out of the acrid cloud in a fit of coughing. It dissipated a moment later to reveal the vanguard and the tinkerer about twenty feet apart, each without a weapon. For a moment, all was silent but for the cunk as the robot that grabbed Cyril's leg hit the ground.

Beneath the fractured remains of Jokaero's helmet, Cyril could make out only shadow. His features were hidden by the poor light. During the last ten minutes or so, the sky had turned even darker; if the knight could spare a moment to examine the clouds, he would have guessed that rain was imminent. As it was, he merely glared at his opponent, who glared at him back and growled, “Damn...that's twice now. For all my tricks and traps, your one ability keeps surprising me.” Unable to discern a reason why he shouldn't, Cyril walked forward, picking up his halberd on the way. Jokaero turned to the husk of one of his robots and removed its knife arms, holding them up like dual swords. “A melee, is it? En guarde!”

The two clashed. Cyril leveraged the reach of his halberd to strike from far outside Jokaero's range, but the little inventor dashed beneath the slash toward him. Without missing a beat the vanguard pivoted around to kick, and it connected with Jokaero's torso in a solid blow that popped him upward. Like a seasoned batter, Cyril followed through with his initial swing to whack his foe across the ribs with the flat of his halberd's blade. Jokaero grunted as he hurtled away toward one of the houses. This time, however, he landed in a roll, and the momentum of his landing helped him sprint straight through the open from door. The sight caused Cyril's grimace to deepen. “Little freak wanted me to throw him away so he can escape. Bet there's even more wonderful stuff to deal with in there.” Even while grumbling, though, he began his pursuit. His boots smacked the cement walkway as he jugged up the path and into the house.

Inside, he found the lights on, and though low they were a welcome change from the darkness outside. “Huh! Maybe I'll finally get to land a proper hit on him.” His pace slowed as he entered the foyer. A hallway lay to either side, and in front was the living room. It had cheap couches, a couple tables of assorted sizes, and a television. For a moment they caught his eye, but he caught himself after a couple of seconds. “Yeah, stare at the décor while that bright spark's still around.” He cast his eyes around, searching for any sign of Jokaero. “Hey, buddy! I've changed my mind. Turns out your wish is waaaay more important than mine, so I'm giving up. Come on out so we can talk about it.”



For once, Oren was struck by silence. The drone floated, seemingly inert, watching Pithy. The gleeful manager of a gladiatorial fight, perhaps back in the half-elf's own world, might have heaped extra attention on the gruesome carcass of the loser, but the flying machine displayed a curious inclination to avoid looking at the fallen. After few moments of silence marred only by the whistle of wind, the lick of flames, and the distant screeches of bats, the announcer's image flared to life before the drone's 'face'. This time, Oren's indelible smile was a dry crack, and his eyebrows indicated no merriment. “Congratulations are in order, I suppose. Here...this is yours.”

A series of clasps undid themselves on the drone's underside, not unlike those of a suitcase, and down fell the wooden box. It hit the ground a few meters away from Pithy and bounced twice before laying still, upside down. The drone, freed of its burdensome payload, shot upward into the air until its rotors recalibrated for the reduced weight and returned it to ground-level. This time, the distinctive whir of its fans was muffled, much like Oren's own boisterous tone.



The little picture retrieved from within the case was difficult to discern even without the broiling dark sky above, threatening to unleash a downpour any second. Nevertheless, it bore the image of a young girl and her two parents on either side, figures that to Pithy might seem oddly familiar.

A sigh, distorted through the microphone, escaped the drone. “I've often found myself wondering: do animals have noble souls? We think of them as so far beneath us, but in my experience, animals can be every bit as noble. It might seem silly to ya, but ya know, for a while I lived in the wild with 'em. Wolves, ravens, rats...neheh.” Oren caught himself, and his mouth stretched into a grin. “But, uh, hey! That badger was a right piece of work, huh? Your next opponent is somewhere in the next district over, and I hope ya haven't gotten your fill of guns, 'cause he's packin' way more heat than Jo did. Justice Hub's a dangerous spot, un-'fort'-unately, so I wouldn't stay if I was you. If ya go south over the base wall, that's outta bounds. East is Governance Hub, where yours truly spends his time, locked away in a tall tower like a damsel in distress! Also, that guy I mentioned. West and north is more city, but west enough is the beach. All sorts of fun things happenin' there, you'll 'sea'. Choice is yours, Miss In White!”

Giving off a cackle, the drone began to rise, only to pause about ten meters up. “Oh, one more thing!” Oren's voice went lower. “There's something beneath this base. College people turned back in the generator room, right before the vault, on account of all the creepy crawlies. We'd owe ya if ya went down and found out what's what down there. Good luck...” The next moment, the machine beeped and went rigid, signaling that it had gone back to autopilot.



Not a moment when to waste as the ground shook beneath the force of Juniper's heel, kicking an obstructing cloud of dust into the air. The Crimson Cavalier, as named by the announcer, steeled himself for a sudden and intense assault. Instead, not only did his primary opponent target the wildcard first, but also -after performing a slide kick that forced the anon to sacrifice its shot and dodge- she used her speed and momentum to escape into the library. In the span of a moment he'd been left alone with the anon, who fired off a shot at Juniper as she disappeared around the corner. He shared a dubious glance with the drone. With its own target lost, the creature turned to train its pistol on Westley, who'd ducked into Juniper's dust cloud. Seeing this, it began to back up, wary of a sneak attack, and fired a few times into the cloud. Its fixed its beady red eyes on the cloud, so ardent in its search for any movement that it didn't notice the UFO descending behind it until it was blasted in the back by a laser. The anon slumped down, and over its body stepped Westley, headed into the library to fight his opponent in the proper fashion.

A few seconds after the Crimson Cavalier entered the library, the anon picked up its head. Wrath burned in its red eyes as it pushed itself, silent but in pain, to its feet. Still holding its gun, it began toward the battleground as well.

(Begin your three-round fight)



An inquisitive tone emanated from the drone to Bonesword following his explanation. “Huh? Why all the theatricality? Ya don't think I'm recording all this awful slaughter? Neheheh...what is this, pay-per-view?” Oren snickered in a somewhat obvious manner. His flying machine gave a clicking sound, and from beneath its fuselage the wooden box detached to plummet toward the skeleton below. Its safety catch, a simple metal mechanism, would give way in no time to reveal an especially strange piece of technology within.



The drone was not looking at the loot or its winner, though. Its vision lay upon the sea beyond the extravagant pier where an amusement park stood above the lapping waves, where not too far away at all an outcropping of unsettling, alien architecture projected from the sea like a growing cyst. “Do undead feel sorrow? Or do you choose not to? He wasn't a pleasant man, of course...but isn't it sad for such a big spirit to be extinguished just like that? Like in 'Of Mice and Men'.” A contemplative pause came next. “Someone had to put Big Big out of his misery eventually, I suppose. I wonder if he'll go to heaven? He did not consciously choose evil, after all. He could only do what he was told.”

After a moment, the drone span around to face Bonesword. “As for you, looks like ya have the entire Amusement Mile to yourself. Your next opponent's occupied in that weird place in the ocean at the moment. If ya weren't a living doggie treat, I'd tell ya to stay clear of the storm, but whatever. Won't 'rain' on your parade. In the mean time, you could do use College folks a little favor. Last time someone came through the Mile, she said she saw a couple of carnies 'clown'-ing around. Check it out, wouldja?” Oren's display went dark and the drone to autopilot, causing it to zip up and away. This time, it rose high enough to clear the strip of buildings along the seaside row, and it disappeared over them in moments.



A tumult of images, each as full of chaos and deprived of coherence as the next, troubled Teller in his sleep. No stranger to nightmares, he nevertheless fell further and further through the twilight, reliving memory after memory until even they slipped away. Only murkiness came after, but after what felt like hours, the haze began to recede. For the third time that night, the captain found himself deposited by the nebulous fog in a strange and unknown realm.

This time, he jerked into a sitting position on a stretch of road, and only a moment's examination would determine it to be merely a chunk of street atop a spire hundreds of feet high, rising like a mountain peak from a sea of fog down below. For thousands of feet in every direction, there was only empty space, but a ring of derelict buildings perched at odd angles beyond that gave the impression of a destroyed city with a massive hole in the middle, and Teller alone in the middle of that. Overhead, the vault of heaven stretched across the sky, the same hue of light gray above as below, though stars speckled it all the same.

All was calm in this surreal landscape of emptiness and desolation. An eye turned toward the depths of the void, however, could discern the bizarre but undeniable coronas of stars down there a well. These seemed to move, their glows intensifying as they rose, and more cropped up by the moment. Before long, the motes of light left the foggy deep behind, and lofted like paper lanterns up and past Teller's perch. Whispers, faint and unintelligible, emanated from each one. A million sparks danced through the open air, serenely beautiful.

The first to sleep...tired soldier

At once, it came as a voice, yet not as a voice. It was as if a thought interjected itself into Teller's own mind, not at all like the murmurings of the many lights.

Vultures gather above the dead city...from this world...and beyond. All hunger...for its secrets. When the sun touches the avenue of renown...a greater and more fleeting light...will open the path. You will not...be alone

Rain, white as snow, began to fall. After a moment, it became apparent that it was not falling from the sky, but shooting skyward from below. The inverse rain grew thicker and louder by the moment.

Seek...souls

The rain drowned out the dream, and when Teller awoke, he was back in his commandeered room. Outside, the rain poured down.



The patrol moved quickly and quietly, eliminating any zombies that got in the way while keeping a close eye on its surroundings. Soon it left the visibility of the offshoot of main street behind, moving instead into a parking garage that went both up and down. Without much deliberation, the squad opted to descend, and in its characteristic organized and efficient manner it moved into the structure's depths beneath the glare of orange lights. Several minutes passed before the group of soldiers and scouts bottomed out at the garage's lowest floor, at which point the unknown intruders navigated to the center. Down here, there were few cars, but they remained ample enough to provide cover for any gelatinous sneaks in the vicinity.

After converging in the precise middle of the floor, everyone paused a moment as a singular soldier opened a laptop computer, scanned the screen, and then gave a nod of confirmation. Four of the explorers then huddled together as the rest formed a perimeter. The technicians' toolkits opened in a series of smooth popping noises, and they got to work. One after another they put together various devices they'd brought, and in remarkably short order a fully-assembled gizmo roughly three feet tall and two in diameter lay between them. Still communicating in their unknown language, he technicians armed the device. Spikes projected from its bottom into the ground all at once, and a steady beep came from the terminal at he top every second. One final touch -a short-range motion tracker- went into its slot, and the technicians packed up their things. In a moment the group was on its way again, leaving the device behind.

Once back on the ground, the soldiers picked up the pace. They moved away from the vicinity of Main Street with remarkable speed, gunning down zombies in their way while on the run, and their overall formation suffered as a result. Some of the intruders got ahead, while others, burned with heavier equipment, fell slightly behind, but the group remained fairly cohesive as it made in the direction of the Commercial District's hospital.



Tracking the source of the telltale noise of metalworking was all too easy for Motley Crue. With very little difficulty he arrived in Oldtown's gateway plaza. This area, littered with various stalls and carts that hinted at the jubilee of the fairs once held here, connected the historical place's main thoroughfare to a portion of modern city that itself bordered Downtown—or rather, it would have, were it not for a gaping cleft, hundreds of feet wide, that sharply divided Uptown from Downtown. Though nowhere near it at the moment, Crue would need only approach it to witness the total blackness down below, and grasp the impossibility of making it to the other side without some sort of air vehicle. Nothing of the sort, unfortunately, would be found among the archaic flavors of Oldtown, though the now-isolated buildings cut off from Downtown might prove more fruitful. Closest to Crue and most visible from his current position was the train station, situated closest to the City of Echoes' most prominent tourist destination and complete with a pedestrian crossing that led right into the plaza. A train, rather ornately decorated and appropriately antiquated in make, did reside in the station, though one of the branches of the track that lay before it veered off toward the dire canyon to the south.

More pertinent to Crue's goal, however, was the man standing in an old-timey forge installed beneath one of the plaza's 15th-century French inns. At a glance, any onlooker could tell he was Japanese, and though he looked no older than 30, the tips of his scruffy black hair were silvery gray. He wore a modern hoodie, teal in color and adorned with a wavelike pattern that seemed to swim in the paltry lantern-light. An intent expression adorned his rough features, and heavy work gloves his hands, in which he currently held an axeblade. Still giving off traces of steam from just having been quenched in water, the hot chunk of newly-pounded metal was deposited on a rack to cool, and the smith turned his attention to a little handheld drill with which he got to work on a swordblade he had laying by. Unaware of Crue's approach, he carved runic sigils along the blade's surface, and somehow each one awoke with diamond-blue light after completion. It was a longsword, meant for two-handed use but both slim and light enough to dance in the hands of an expert, and judging by the smith's expression, he was very proud of it.

An unlucky spark flew from the tip of his drill toward his unprotected face. Rather than burning him, however, it fizzled out as a jet of water lifted itself off the smith's hoodie to intercept it. The next instant the water was gone, and the metalworker showed no sign that anything unusual had happened.

Brucie got back on his feet unsteadily, groaning like some drunkard recently awoken with a mountain of a headache. He looked the part, too, Lily decided watching him cradle his head. No matter, if he was giving her an opening then she would not be so ungrateful as to not take it. She dashed forward, electricity once more jumping between her fingers.

Arm out-stretched, she lashed out, expecting to meet metal or flesh and see him wracked with lightning again. Only, no such thing happened. She had only moments to register that he had blocked her with the rubbery parts of his arm before pain flared in her left side and she was sent reeling. Jumping back, she sought cover behind a large machine of some description while cursing her own recklessness. She had seen a moment of weakness and just rushed in, and now she paid for it with blood and pain. It wasn't the first time she had done such a thing, and every time she did it in the past she had been admonished for it - not only by her superiors, but by Tsukiko as well. And if there was one thing she feared, it was making that woman mad.

Resigning herself to being more careful, she went about inspecting her injuries. She still had that cut on her right arm, which was to be expected, as well as an assortment of lesser bruises and scrapes. Her newest additions were at series of cut along her rib cage. The bones kept it shallow and had protected her, but they still bled enough to make her worry. If she did find a way to close the wound, either by cauterization, bandages or thread and needle, she would be in trouble.

"Come out, come out wherever you are!" the Shark's voice rang out, making Lily jump. That kind of voice coupled with sing song tone like that were eerie at best.

The fact that he calls out to me instead of going after me tells me that he is either expecting an ambush, or just not want to get in close. So far he has only engaged in melee whenever I have gotten close myself. Conclusion? He is superior at close quarters but prefers to stay at range. He is powerful at range, but so am I. I should stay at range, at least there there's no disadvantage.

That decided, Lily ran out of cover. She did it again, and again, and again. Soon there were at least a dozen images of Lily standing hodgepodge around the room, some in plain view, others half in cover, and even some crouched on top of machines and pipes. Brucie looked much as she had expected; confused and unsure where to aim his cannon.

He knew that all but one were fakes, having blasted through a few of them already during their fight, but even that knowledge could not keep his instincts from screaming at him that he was vastly outnumbered. Sapient though he may have been, she was still very much a shark, and his animalistic side told him that a single shark could not beat twelve beings such as Lily, not at the same time.

Luckily, he was not just a single shark. He was so much more. The remaining three tubes opened on his shoulder, spewing out a rocket each that immediately went for three separate clusters of Lily's, causing each and every one to seek shelter. The rockets exploded causing shrapnel, both metal and not, to fly across the room, ricocheting off of various surfaces, denting and puncturing even some pipes. Only three Lily's remained, and only one of them bled. A flying piece of metal had almost hit her in the eye, and only superhuman reflexes had allowed her to dodge it in time, leaving a bleeding cut across her cheek to show for it.

"There ya are. I can smell yer blood, y'know." Brucie grinned, looking the real Lily straight in the eyes; meeting her glare with as flippant a look as a shark could muster.

[i]So he can smell my blood?[i] Lily almost smiled. "Good to know," she replied, and threw her hands outwards, covering a large portion of the room in the scent of blood. She wasted no time in getting back into cover, from shadow to shadow in an effort to throw off Brucie. She was successful to an extent, but not completely so as evident by the jets of water hitting places frighteningly close to her, both in front and behind.

She couldn't afford to get hit. Too much water and her ability to generate friction between her tails would be lost. She jumped behind a thick pipe, coming to an immediate stop but sent forth the sound of a pair of feet running across the concrete floor. Metal groaned and snapped some distance ahead of her, a pipe having been punched clean through by a jet of water, clothes to where the sound of footsteps originated.

So he is going by sound now? He is working out what I can do. He knows I can mimic smell and create images. He probably suspects that I can also render myself invisible. Not untrue, but he went for the sound.

An idea started to form in Lily's mind, one that was sure to earn the ire of Tsukiko were she to ever find out, but nonetheless one that she figured might actually work.

She let the footsteps continue to circle Brucie, but had a second set split off in the opposite direction. Another set of footsteps sounded from Lily's current position, running out to the left. She didn't stop until six sets of running feet could be heard circling Brucie, both going in and out of shadowy areas.

Now comes the reckless part. Lily stepped out of into the open, facing Brucie, and started to slowly make her way towards him - tails undulating behind her. She didn't muffle her own steps or turn herself invisible. She played on his paranoia, on his expectations that the real one was among the phantom sounds surrounding them. Each step saw another ball of cobalt fire wink into existence around her

The shark immediately aimed his arm-mounted gun at her. He looked triumphant for all but a second, before suspicion took hold and his eyes narrowed. "Are you the real one?" he asked, metallic fingers flexing, fidgeting.

"I am," Lily replied, fighting to keep her expression neutral. It was a gamble, telling him the truth, but hopefully he would take it as further misdirection. So far he had been easily fooled, falling for each and every trick she threw at him. There was no reason he would not beli-

"I believe ya."

Water rushed at Lily, and once again it was only her superior reflexes that prevented her from sharing the same fate as the metal pipe from earlier. Barely the words had left the shark's mouth before she abandoned all pretence of being an illusion and threw every single bit of fire she had at him.

Fire and water met in a roar of sound and mist, the resulting explosion sending both of them flying back. Lily ricocheted off of a pipe, landing face down on the concrete floor.

Brucie had fared somewhat better. Instead of his own body taking the brunt, he had just managed to turn in such a way that has metallic limbs absorbed most of the blast and the resulting collision with the set of stairs.

"That one actually hurt," he groaned.

The faint sound of Lily's groans echoed his assesment.

The Blood Devil v. Rose Cythla Round 1

“Ah, it seems that our fight has begun, how amusing. To be forthright, I don’t care to expend the energy.” Rose made a motion with her hands, and suddenly, several figures dropped from the ceiling, landing near Saria.

“Go on, my children. Don’t kill her, however. Such a specimen would make a welcome addition to the family.” The shambling monstrosities slowly made their way towards Saria, unintelligible words and phrases spewing from wherever their “mouths” were. She grabbed her sword, preparing to strike.

The first one, a pale tube-shaped monster with two arms, both sprouting several gibbous appendages each, came towards her, flailing. Saria drew her sword, and with no more than a whisper of air, sliced the thing open. Green-black goo sprayed out of the wound, and Saria made another slice, bisecting the creature. Both halves fall to her sides, squirming and jerking.

She barely dodged another attack, this time from a monster that looked a bit too much like a…

Ahem.

Clearing her head from the initial distraction, Saria went to work on the second one, slicing off one of its tube-like arms and finishing it off with a stab to its chest, and dragging her sword across its body, up through its “head”.

Saria saw something out of the corner of her eye, but couldn’t turn to see it in time. It was a fist from the barnacle-covered creature, which slammed into her and sent her flying back several meters, landing in a heap. She stood herself up, quietly thanking her metal-coated self.

Most likely wouldn’t have survived that had I worn anything less…

She stood up, reassessing her situation. There were three more of those… weirdly shaped monsters, including the one covered in barnacles, which she assumed acted as a sort of armor. The second one was a mass of some kind of mix of flesh, protoplasmic matter, forming and unforming eyes, and dozens of sluglike, tentacle limbs which it used to slither and slide its way around. The third was almost humanlike, an emphasis on almost. In reality, it was fr from human. It stood on two hooved, animal-like legs which led up to a reptilian body, complete with horns and spikes protruding from its back. Its arms were spindly, gangly, and its face was flat, having an abnormally large mouth that was lined with crooked, sharp teeth. It had no nose, instead having a ragged, triangular shaped hole. It had no eyes to speak of; Instead, two black holes goggled back at Saria. In short, the sight chilled her.

This is what becomes of the ones she defeats? I would rather kill myself than submit to such a fate.

She readied her blade, and wasted no more time. It also turned out that the three of the beasts wasted no time as well, as they all suddenly charged towards her. It should have been an easy fight, the skilled warrior against these ghastly abominations. But in between the gaps of the monsters, Saria spotted a shining, purple gleam coming from behind the trio. The girl, Rose Cythla. Saria had forgotten about her, and she had just finished charging her attack.

Saria felt the hit before she saw it. A purple beam erupted from Rose’s chest, and hit Saria directly in the torso, once again sending her flying back a few meters and landing on the ground, dazed. The first thing she did was check her armor, which was surprisingly unscathed, besides a large amount of heat emanating off of the impact point.

However physically well she was, she felt different. As she looked up to face her opponents, which were still charging after her, with Rose casually walking behind them, she felt something unusual to her, something which eluded her up until this tournament. For the first time in a long while, she felt… fear.

The monsters now looked even more grotesque, their features seemingly more twisted and evil-looking, and Saria now feared possibly becoming one of them. How a warrior such as herself could be reduced to such a state of mindlessness and inhumanity troubled her to the core. Really, it was not a way she wanted to go, to become cannon fodder to a little girl, or whatever she was.

Dazed, and half-drunk with fear, Saria charged into the fray. The first one to try and stop her was the two-legged animal-like human with the horrid looking face, extending its arms out to try and grab her. Saria threw a wild swing with her sword, slicing upwards through its arms and through its open maw, severing the top of its head and killing it instantly, a black spurt of blood erupting from the lethal wound.

As it collapsed, the barnacle monster charged towards her, both arms raised. Saria examined it, and noted a serious weakness: The eye which rested in the center of its body. As its arms came down towards her, she deftly sidestepped the two pillar-like limbs, which crashed into the spot where she would have been. Without missing a beat, Saria flipped her blade, holding it blade-down, and jammed it into the thing’s eye, twisting it around to make sure she hit something vital. After a couple seconds, the barnacle beast stopped moving, and she removed her blade, now covered in green slime.

She saw the protoplasmic abomination wriggle its way towards her, tentacles squirming and flailing about. At the same time, she saw Rose prepare another laser attack. Like muscle memory, Saria dodged out of the way so that the protoplasm monster was in between them two. She saw a flash of light, and the back of the thing erupted in purple light. However, it wasn’t damaged all that badly. It seemed that the insanity-inducing effects of the laser did not affect something which was most likely already insane. Saria ran towards the beast, dodging its tentacles and severing the ones she couldn’t avoid.

Eventually, she was right up against it, and she thought that she had won, or so it seemed. With its many eyes and limbs, forming and unforming, she didn’t know where to cut. So, she started to swing randomly, cutting the thing in a dozen different places. However, every cut she made reformed with frighteningly fast speed, and soon enough, all of the wounds she made had regenerated, and she felt something wrap around her leg. She looked down and realized too late that it was one of the thing’s tendrils, and she felt herself be flipped over, and lifted into the air.

Saria was violently slammed down into the ground, repeatedly. After the thrashing, her vision was blurry, and she felt a ringing in her head. Still, she had clung to her sword. Upside down, Saria was now face-to-face with Rose, an eerie grin spreading across the purple-garbed girl’s face.

“You do realize, that had I wanted you dead, I would have blasted you into the outer reaches of the cosmos by now. But alas, however “great” of a warrior you seem to be, it’s simply not worth the effort. I know all that you fear, Saria, the Blood Devil. So, I’ll just break you, then take your soul after.”

Rose’s headpiece lit up with a triple glow, and Saria felt like she had been hit with three sledgehammers at the same time, and she was dislodged from the creature’s grasp, getting launched back even farther than before, landing in a very pained heap. Saria slowly stood up, every single inch of her body aching. Her head was ringing, and she couldn’t think properly. All of her senses were confused, blurry, disoriented. Still, she had to carry on.

She let out a yell, and charged towards the monster, swinging wildly as she went. Again, she was there, cutting at it endlessly with renewed vigor, wanting to hit something, anything. And luckily, she did. Her blade struck something solid inside of the monster, and suddenly, it collapsed into a gelatinous heap of mucus-like waste.

Though the five minions were now dead, Saria couldn’t afford to celebrate. There was still one more monster to kill. She looked up at the purple-garbed girl, who still had a cocky grin plastered across her face. Her hair was now moving like snakes, like it had a life of its own. Rose let out a high-pitched, maniacal laugh.

“My, you are quite the fighter, aren’t you, Blood Devil? Maybe I miscalculated your abilities. Still, the time for fun is coming to a close now. It was amusing while it lasted.”

Rose’s hair swelled up into tendrils, and reared up around her, like a dozen serpents ready to strike all at once, their violet tips glowing with eldritch energy. Saria focused on her blade, with only one thought in her mind: Blood. Soon enough, she felt that familiar feeling once again; Her blood forcefully drawn out of her body, and coating the blade, acting as a new, sharper edge for the sword. She knew that this was a risky move, but dangerous situations often called for dangerous solutions. Also, she was just plain annoyed at the purple girl for being so damn condescending.

“Oh just shut up, will you?”

The conqueror's challenge, roared out into the murky darkness, echoed magnificently but soon fell to silence. His ears, focused to detect any threat until his eye's adjusted, picked up the patter of booted feet. Into his sphere of vision, peeling off from a section of wall, came a humanoid shape whose clothes made for a silhouette both unusual and eerie to one of less powerful will than the Tyrant. This previously unseen intruder's illogical course of action -to stride forward at an nonthreatening pace rather than spring some sneak attack- most likely precluded the possibility of a preemptive strike from the ogre, allowing it to proceed unhindered closer to the light that streamed down from above to spatter in the cavern's center. After a moment, the sun's radiance illuminated him, and at once the reason behind his lack of tact and strange outline became apparent: he was a Jester, all done up in motley of unidentifiable texture and composition.

Not unlike the announcer that Tyrant had yet to meet, this stranger's face, too, appeared to be locked in a ceaseless grin. However, a second glance at his getup could only bring up more questions; the cloth of his frilled color twisted like the fronds of some fleshy plant, his ribbed shirt resembled coral, and the eyes sewn into the cloth of his baggy pantaloons almost seemed mobile in the less-than-perfect light. The jester turned his head to the side in the manner of a curious dog, balancing knives on his fingertips with the disarming poise of a performer, not an assassin. When he spoke, his voice was a singsong that sounded hollow through his unmoving mouth.

"̷Ţhou must p̴ardo̸n ̵m͡y ͜wo̶eful͏ ̸k͝n҉owl͝ed͞ge͟, sir!̸
M͢y͘ a̸im͏ ̕waś ̸finding t͟hòs͝e wh̡o ̧cam͝e̴ b́ęf̛ore͢.͜"͢

He flicked a knife into the air, caught it between two fingers, and used it as a pointer to indicate the glowing city far, far below. His empty gaze, if eyes he did possess, did not leave Tyrant's brutish face.

"W͞i̕t͡ḩ ̕ţh̢ee I͜ ̨ḩa͜v͝e no̢ q̵ua͝l̀ms̕. T̸hòu ͠art o҉ne c҉a̷l̕l̵ed̢
to ͢f͟igh͞t,̶ ́yȩt ̢I̡ ̷ám ́not ̢ţhi҉ne fòe. ͞Cl͟i͠mb u̷p
t͘hȩ ́t͟hi͞ņg ͡of s̵teel̕, s̸ùrèl̸y up above͠ t̨hi͟n̡e̛
èn̶e͝m͡y awa͏its͜.͟ I̵ ̵a͝s͢k͞ ̸bu̕ţ ͡one̷ thìn̶g͢ ̡of t̷h̷ee:̶
͠Wi̴th̛ ̧o̕ne͠s wh͏o b͢ea̴ŕ ͏th́is̵ ̧mąrk̡, do no̸t̡ t͘an̢gle͢.͡”

The light glimmered off a signet ring upon the jester's little finger. If by now Tyrant could see sufficiently to discern its surface, he could make out the emblem of a clawed left hand with the pinky and index fingers extended overlaying a circle of feathers. A moment passed before the jester gave a thoughtful hm and flipped his knife back over to balance precariously atop his thumb.

"̢I ̛s͠ens͝e ͠a̶n ̀od́d͘ ͟im̛p͢la҉cab̶i͏l͘i͞ty
We ͢d͢o҉ not ta͠ke ͟lig̸ḩt́ ̕unp҉ro̵voḱed a͜ttacķ
Th̛i̶s͏ ҉s̴q͞u͜a̵lid ho͞le͜--w̧ill ̸y̸ou҉ ̢ma̵ke i͟t y̵ǫur͡ ̸g̀ŕave?̷"

Without a breeze to disperse the dust, the cavern air was heavy, but the threat hanging in it made it heavier still. An eight-foot-tall fool would have been imposing against anyone else, but compared to the Tyrant the jester was small. Yet, the cockiness of his tone hinted at something more to him. He stood fifty feet away from the ogre, closer to the edge of the abyss than to the metal bore from the surface. Though his features didn't change, they seemed to echo the question: what will it be?

With a thundering roar, Ghidorah demands for her opponent to reveal itself. She looks around her surroundings, hoping to catch a glimpse of this stealthy hunter. However all she simply got was a momentary silence. In reality, Fran wasn't where the lightning bolts hit. Having shot once, she moved to a new location to get another pick at her. The silence was shattered as the sniper issues another shot at the Queen Of Terror from behind. The shot was just a bit off as it skims by Ghidorah's cheek, almost touching it as it hits the ground. With her animalistic senses, her ears picked up the exact location where the sniper is now. Smiling gleefully, she turns around and takes to the air for a brief moment of time, unleashing another volley of electricity at her opponent, who she can now see as the light illuminates the opponent. Clearly Ghidorah isn't the type to remain silent in battle, tearing pieces of branches as she tries to electrocute her opponent.

The opponent, being only being slightly stronger or a faster as a regular mortal man, continued to run for cover. After jumping from tree to tree, she drops down back to the forest floor and takes another quick shot at her wings. Unfortunately, Ghidorah recognizes the attack and simply dodges it like so. The kaiju gijinka than makes a diving charge at her opponent, screaming as another shot rattles beside her. That one nearly hit her left shoulder. As soon as she reached the trees, the Queen retracted her wings, made herself as slim as possible, and pounces on the sniper, pinning her to the ground. With such ravenous fury the Queen brutalizes her with her mighty claws, ripping and tearing into her flesh. Even as the sniper raised her arms up to protect her face, and even as she tries to take out her melee weapon, she was simply no match as blood splatters onto the forest leaves, leaving her as a mangled corpse.

Satisfied with her work, the gijinka gets back onto her feet and looks down at her opponent, chuckling evilly.

"Pfft-hahaha!" she laughs impulsively, "Is that the best you can do?! You never even hit me! If the Crucible is this easy, they should just give me the award now."

Thinking she was now dead, the kaiju gijinka makes her way out into the open clearing and to explore the settlement around her. Yet it felt way too easy. Surely this wasn't it right? And just before she makes her third step into the outside, her right foot seemed to have gotten stuck on a piece of string. Having no time to react, she trips onto the ground with a solid thud and then a sound of skin ripping and tearing to her left. A cry of pain escapes her maw as she finds out that her left wing was pierced by a sharp wooden piece of a log. She quickly gets up, carefully removing the wounded wing from the log as she inspects the damage. One look behind her and she can spot two things. One, there was a piece of string that was in between two trees... secondly, the sniper seemed to have regenerated behind her with no wounds to show! And worst of all, she earned another pair of arms, having four in total! A growl of annoyance forces her to attempt in electrocute her with her finger lightning, only for the sniper to climb up the tree and back into the dark abyss of the night.

"You son-of-a-bitch!" Ghidorah roars as she attempts to follow where she ran off, deeper into the forest and further from the settlement. Now without her ability to fly being confiscated for the time being, she needs to rely on her speed and dexterity on the ground. And considering the trap that she fell into that caused the penalty, she needs to be very careful and aware of her surroundings, or otherwise it can take something else from her.

The good captain lurched his head in the direction he had heard the drone suddenly speak from. The college official that was inside the screen declared that his first match was ready to begin, and he had already let the opponent get the upper hand. It did not take long for Runch to see what the college man meant, though the full depth of the situation was not yet known. As he looked up at the flying contraption, his eyes met those of another. A strange man of dark skin was perched high atop one of the columns just above Runch's head. The man glared at the flying contraption with a look of death, clearly upset that his ambush had been ruined. Something told the captain that this was the sort of man who would go out of his way to kill their referee for this transgression. However he had little opportunity to ponder his opponent's mindset, for the Bashibozuk wasted no time in striking despite phase 1 of his plan having been so thoroughly ruined.

The Turkish man leaped down from his position, wielding two exotic blades in hand. These weapons had two targets: the heart and brain of the captain. Unable to reach his spoonsaber in time, Runch reacted in the most expedient way he could. Adrenaline suddenly pumping through his veins, he extended his left hand upward toward his would-be assassin, while his right hand went for his primary weapon. "Bori bori firehose!" A stream of multi-colored orb-shaped pellets sprayed forth from his open palm with great force and quantity. The Turkish assassin took a direct hit on the chest, tumbling backward through the air, but the pirate's strategy did not leave him completely defended. Serhan's dominant weapon was able to slice into Runch's left wrist. As Runch recoiled back in slight pain, Serhan regained his footing with a fast tumble maneuver as he hit the ground.

"Omnomnom! Great moves! May the best man-" The captain was cut off by a cheap, opportunistic attack as the practical mind of the assassin wasted no time in pleasantries or conversation. Killing his opponent was the only purpose he had here. If the naive pirate was going to waste time striking up conversation, then he deserved an idiot's death. Bang! Clang! These two sounds echoed throughout the hall of this grand cathedral. Serhan dropped the blade in his off hand, and extended a hidden pistol within the sleeve, firing before the yataghan hit the floor. The captain was taken aback by such an assault, but not completely unprepared. He was able to ready the spoonsaber and blocked the bullet using the large, paddle-like end of his unique weapon. The angle and force of the strike knocked the captain off balance, just enough so that he had to take a step back. A step that hit the tripwire Serhan had originally setup for the beginning of this battle.

In an instant two crossbow bolts shot out from different directions. Runch wasn't positioned the way he was supposed to have been when the Bashibozuk setup the trap, so they did not strike him dead on as intended. This did not mean Runch got off scott free. One bolt pierced straight through the tail of his coat, causing only cosmetic damage as it collided with the floor. The second struck him in the left hip, sinking a good two inches deep. "GAH!" This was now his opportunity. Serhan unloaded another three shots upon his prey. This time, however, the pirate captain was definitely prepared. "Bori bori wall!" With a wave of his injured hand, K. Runch produced a barrier directly in front of himself made of solid cereal. One big rectangular pellet, with the density of steel. The three bullets collided harmlessly with the wall, falling limply to the floor beneath them.

Captain K. Runch rolled to the side around his wall, prepared to strike out at his opponent. The Bashibozuk was no longer there. Runch raised an eyebrow, carefully strafing around the pillars. He couldn't afford to let such an underhanded opponent get the drop on him again. Meanwhile, Serhan had tactically positioned himself behind the primary altar of the cathedral. The trained killer was loathe to allow a target to catch their breath, but he found himself needing the same. A quick touch to his chest, a small wince of pain, confirmed what he had suspected. Despite his body armor, the force of that cereal stream had hurt him, left his chest bruised. How, though? It was merely baked wheat and grain. The speed at which it had collided with him shouldn't have provided any injury whatsoever. Further, it could stop his bullets. The skilled hitman offered a small, silent prayer to Allah, when the solution dawned on him. It had to be hard. Exceedingly hard. It was only grain though, which is very soft. The only way grain could take on such a property was to be extremely compacted. So it was dense. The Bashibozuk realized then that his opponent was far more dangerous than initially suspected. He did not just create this cereal in vast quantities, but he could control its physical properties. A single false step, and Serhan knew he could be crushed beneath tons.

"You know, my first mate is a ninja. All stealth and shadows and whatnot. You'd probably get along, omnomnom!" The captain tread carefully, unsure as to the location of his opponent. The dark skinned killer could be behind any pillar, or up above them. He had to make sure he checked every corner, watched his own back, and as proven at the beginning of this fight, keep an eye above his head. Any second and the Bashibozuk could strike a fatal, decisive blow. That was unacceptable. The others were waiting back on the ship. Joanne was fighting hard in his name. He could handle losing this contest, but dying? That was not acceptable.

The weird heart thing around Mountain's neck beeped twice, and suddenly, a rosy pink light lit up above the glowing orange one on its front, pulsing. Mountain stopped and glanced at it, examining the new light. "Hmm, neat!" He smiled, holstering his rifle behind his back again, before he continued on his merry way. He noticed that his opponent had previously been trying to open a rectangular box in the fountain, and curiosity overwhelmed him. He made his way over to the softly splashing fountain and peered over its edge, and sure enough, the box was there, intact. He reached in and pulled it out, water going everywhere, glimmering in the dim light and background fires. The box hadn't seemed to be damaged by the sustained water submergence at all. That was a good thing, the Trickshotter knew. However, upon closer inspection, the box seemed to be slightly crushed at one end. Mountain frowned. He hoped that whatever loot was inside wasn't broken. That would suck.

Shaking some stray droplets of water off, Mountain noticed that that was a hint of bright red inside. He wondered what it could be, before trying to open it. First, he tried to pry it open from its weakened side, where there were cracks in the surface. When that didn't work, Mountain shrugged and pulled out his AWP. Then, he aimed down the sights and fired. The .50 cal round immediately obliterated the wooden material causing it to crack open like a chest, and suddenly, a massive red glow enveloped the immediate area. Mountain placed his rifle on the ground as he reached in, grabbing whatever object was inside before turning around with a wide smile on his face as he held it up above his head. The glow eventually died down and the object was revealed to be a bright red board with ridiculously 80s designs and inscriptions on it. A series of notes suddenly emanated throughout the area as a box of text appeared in front of him.

You got the Board!
Fly away to the danger zone!
Provides speedy horizontal transportation and long jumps (provided enough speed has been reached) for the rider.

"Awwwwwww yiss!" Mountain cheered, placing the board on the ground. It seemed to hover a few inches off the ground. "I got the hoverboard from Back to the Future Part II! I've always wanted one of these!" He stashed away his rifle and hopped on, waving his arms around to regain his balance. He was an experienced skateboarder, after all. He spent hours playing Tony Hawk's Pro Skater and Skate 3. Once that was done, he leaned forwards and gained momentum by kicking empty air next to it. Then a remarkably iconic piece of music filled the air. Mountain smiled. He was gaining speed, fast, and it was a real hoverboard, not like those shitty mini-segways they called 'hoverboards'. And so he went, flying down the road on his new favourite toy, doing tricks for style as a score multiplier tracked his stunts.

For a moment, Motley dared to wonder if the abyss in the near distance was in any way passable. The human body did contain a great deal of blood vessels, after all... but at best, that'd leave him clinging to the side of a cliff hundreds of meters down its length, and at worst would drop him into that bottomless pit after they snapped. Assuming he wasn't just being ridiculous in thinking there were hundreds of meters' worth of blood vessels in his body. Not that he needed to get there now, but he decided his next goal would be the train station, once he'd gotten or failed to get the necessary information from the smith.

Speaking of whom, the man was... rather distressing to look at. Not because he was Japanese, mind - for a time after Pearl Harbour, Motley had been convinced that the Japanese were the worst race on Earth, but it was hard for an educated man such as himself to maintain that view after learning exactly how disproportionate the USA's payback was, even considering the Japanese armed forces' war crimes at the time. No, the frosted tips were what really annoyed him, because for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why some people thought they looked good. Maybe it was just him being old-fashioned, but he felt that if one was going to dye their hair, one should at least dye it a single colour. He'd've had words to say about the hoodie's colour, too, if it weren't so mesmerisingly patterned. And functional, going by the small jet of water it emitted. That gave it a pass, he supposed.

Either way, the smith was clearly skilled. Not that Motley knew much about sword crafting, but this one looked to be rather well-made, though he had the glowing symbols and the smith's expression to go by for that over anything else. He wondered what it would do once it was finished... and considering the current state of the sword, it seemed that wouldn't take too long. So, observing from a short distance away, he kept watch over the smith's work, waiting for less than five minutes total until the smith had drilled the last rune into the weapon's surface, and placed the drill proper down on the table. Only then did Crue clear his throat, to draw the smith's attention without being too sudden.

'That's a fine blade you've made, smith,' he began softly, stepping over to the man once he'd caught his eye. 'Would that I could purchase it, though I hadn't considered I might need funds for anything in this city. I think my money wouldn't have been any good here regardless.' US petro-dollars were a fairly common measuring stick for every other currency worldwide, but they certainly weren't a universal currency in and of themselves. Which was a shame, if you thought about it.

'That's not, however, why I've come to talk to you,' he continued, drawing his phylactery out from under his shirt, holding it steady in his hand, and indeed ready to pull it away should the smith or anybody else try any funny business with it. 'I'm sure you've heard of the tournament that's currently going on within this city, and I'm sure you can guess that I'm one of the participants. I've been reliably informed that killing other participants is but one method of progressing in this tournament. I was wondering if you happened to know of any others, as I'd personally rather avoid murder for the time being.'

As he talked, he wondered if the man would even understand him, foreign as he was by Motley's measuring stick - whilst those hosting the tournament were certainly capable and educated, there was no suggestion that other inhabitants of the city would be. It'd perhaps be silly, of course, if they weren't able to talk to the participants... but then, the City of Echoes wasn't exactly situated in Crue's native homeland. And nor was it a particularly usual city, he'd admit, so he'd take his chances for this first interaction.

@Lugubrious

Bonesword : Clowning Around

What the fuck was this watch? It matched the skeleton's green and purple color scheme well enough, but what in the hell did it do anyway? It wasn't of any Machina tech he had seen, nor did it look like anything that Heaven or Hell could build, but alas it would be something to use. Bonesword put the watch on as he thought about the drone's questions. Undead did feel sorrow, or at least he felt it, so that was one question down. The other question, however, was about a bunch of carnies roaming around the pier, causing mischief and what not.

"I'll take a guess and say it gets me more stuff. I need a shield or something..."

After making his decision to go after the clowns, the Fungal Knight began his prowl for anybody who was around and was dangerous. That... and he also hated clowns.

Geromory stood still for a few moments as the pill took effect. Unbeknownst to the others reality had decided it was going to be in the strange mutants corner from now and would do its damnedest to ensure he came out on top. So when Sophia decided it would probably be best to take care of the gremlin before the pill did something disastrous and took aim at him one of her thrusters hiccuped, having encountered an impurity in her fuel supply for a moment. Sophia hurtled of course from her hovering position just as she opened fire, her shells blasting the gate blocking the entrance. By the time she had corrected her sideways flight Geromory and the universe had decided it was in his best interest to leave and the mutant had quickly Knuckle walked out of the throne room heading to who knew where.

”Well that was rather pathetic. both the pill and your shooting.”

Clotho had stopped to observe, landing near a few wounded bugs to inject them with mutagen, her swarm gathering behind her awaiting their orders. Sophia took this opportunity to empty the remainder of her clips at the two gem carriers, the volley of shots from each pistol tore through the bugs, roughly half missing, but one shot from each boltgun found their mark and blasted the silencing gems.

The two gems destroyed Sophia reloaded and open her mouth.

“You disgust me you filthy emotionless bug! I will crush you, I will make you suffer for your vile corruptions and the mere thought that you had any right to silence one of the Emperors Choir. You shall burn for your crime of existing you hideous xenos filth. I””oh. I thought you were a paladin or something, but it looks like you aren't going to get any help from your god. Just shout at me. That's kind of sad.” “ grind your bones to dust and use you as fertiliser. You putrid sack of heretical puss, in the name of the Emperor, in the name of all that is holy””are you trying to annoy me to death?”“ burn you to cinders with my holy instruments. Your life end here, today, by my hands””... why am I standing here and taking this? Get go her my minions”

Clotho’s bugs and mutants swarmed together at the ranting warrior, screeching in unison to fulfill their queen's command a wave of chinten, spears, claws and napalm. Sophia raised her voice in a single, long clear note which was joined by a roar as she swept the melta pistol across the incoming tightly packed horde, the intense heat igniting, vaporizing and melting the front line of charging bugs, those behind crashing into the back of their burning corpses in a pile up.

Yet more beasts were coming in from all over the massive tree fort however, and no matter what Sophia did, no matter how many she killed, there seemed to be no end. She took advantage of the temporary barricade to try and shoot Clotho again, but to no avail, the speedster simply took off and buzzed around unpredictably. This was getting down to the wire, she needed to find a solution and fast or Clotho was just going to keep this fight going, wearing her down and bleeding her dry of ammo. She did not want to take her chances at chain knifing the speedy duelist.
”you don't appear to learn, perhaps you have a mental deficiency?”
_{you can’t aim at her, so don’t}

If only she could find some way of surprising her adversary, shoot her without letting her know she was shooting at her. A glint of amber light showed her the way.

Sophia drew both her pistols at once and aimed at the Amber screen that protected the throne and let of a volley of shots. As before the enchanted screen reflected the bullets, but Sophia had judged the angle so that they blindsided the Slip Stream Queen, the explosive rounds detonating against and around her, cracking an puncturing her armor in multiple places, though to Sophia‘s horror the projectiles had lost too much momentum and where too scattered to kill her foe. She had reduced the armor to a shattered mess but it was unlikely she would get to land another blow. Then, all at once, the remains of the carapace shatter from her body, revealing the soft pink flesh through which massive amounts of stimulants where pumped suddenly. A snarl twists Chotho's surprisingly human face for a moment before she vanishes.

Then she reappeared right in front of Sophia, driving her blade in a furious swing at the Seraphim, hitting her squarely in the chest and knocking her back, not penetrating the armor but defiantly adding to the bruising Sophia was already suffering. Before she could react Clotho vanished and appeared to her left but then, impossibly, appeared on her right also. The original and her afterimage struck one after the other against her stomach, knocking her back once more, unbalancing her and sending her close to the ground from her aerial position

She was driven back, down towards the entrance, harried by lightning fast blows, the only reason she wasn’t dead was that Clotho appeared to have lost most of her fineness when the transformation overtook her. She might look more human now, but her in her actions and her demeanor, she was more of a furious beast lashing out after having been hurt. A wounded animal moving at ridiculously high speeds, raining blows upon her attacker. Sophia tried to shoot, stab or burn the lightning bug but she simply vanished before any blows could be struck.

“Stay. Still so. I can. Exterminate you!”

A series of 6 blows delivered almost in unison knocked Sophia to the ground, her body hitting the wooden floor and rolling out through the shattered gates into the tunnle beyond. She rose once more only to take another strike and then another before she drew the falmer “Burn monster!” yet Chotho had apparently enough of her wits about her to dash past the wave of flame, striking Sophia's back, damaging the jetpack and causing it to leak fuel, losing her most of the remainder of her already depleted supply. She turned to try and shoot Chotho, but again she vanished and reappeared behind Sophia, striking another blow. She needed to hit both behind her and in-front, to saturate the area with fire so the monster would have nowhere to go.
_{Spin to win!}

She she shot a bolt at Clotho, the queen vanishing as expected, but then she raised one foot off the ground and activated only one of the thrusters on her jetpack to performing a rocket propelled pirouette, the fuel that had leaked igniting as she engaged the flamer as well, engulfing the space around her in a burning hurricane as she spun rapidly. Chotho had been trapped above her in the eye of the storm when she tried to perform her teleport behind you maneuver again only to encounter fire and smoke in every direction of the corridor. Sophia ignited both her thrusters, flinging herself up and smashing into the naked warrior, crushing her wings against the roof. Chotho fell into the inferno, her pink skin igniting as she tried to stand, her body being consumed by the fire as she flailed helplessly towards Sophia.

“The Emperor's will has been done, the xenos has been purged as all others shall be. Now please do me a favor die quickly and quietly”

Sophia kicked her burning adversary back into the throne room, her body collapsing to the floor, her minions were running about in a panic at their mistress's immanent demise. The holy warrior walked past, swaing slightly from her dizzyness, Chotho’s flailing form and bent down and collected the small bag containing the red pill and placed it in one of the empty ammunition holders. She had decided to go and see if anything on the throne was worth taking when _{Don't turn your back on the body, she isn’t dead yet} she turned back around. She saw Clotho, screaming and burning, stabbed herself with the stinger, filling herself with all of the mutagen she had left: her flesh began to contort and grow even while it burned. Her minions were drawn to their dying body, enraptured by her dying sirens call they bit down on her, their bodies becoming infected with the mutagen, swelling and all of them growing together, combining into some twisting expanding mass, a vast cocoon of flesh and chitin.

She drew both her bolt pistols again, firing indiscriminately into the boiling expanse of flesh, yet the mass grew, engulfing every wound with more meat. In the end she only had 2 shots left, and she needed those shots and what little fuel she had left to properly depart the dungeon. She though now might be wise time to depart and resupply, she really didn't want to fight whatever that thing was going to be with her knives.
_{May I make a suggestion. Run}

“Don't worry I'll be back to kill you later”

Sophia fled as the massive warped creation completed its transformation. The enormous monstrous screamed in rage at the retreating Seraphim, the thing that had once been Chotho smashing against the entrance of the comparatively small tunnel, trying to chase her. Sophia did not look back to see what was trying to kill her and just kept running towards the breach she had made.

Brucie was the first back on his feet, pushing himself out of the bent and broken ladder. In spite of the situation, and the numerous cuts and bruises that his body had accumulated over the course of the fights, the shark laughed with exhilaration.

"Good fight, you are," he said, turning to Lily who was still in the process of climbing back onto her feet. "But I am afraid this is the end." He raised his right arm, aiming the water cannon squarely at the staggering woman. "Bye-bye."

Water tore through Lily, punching a hole through her abdomen and into the machine behind her, causing her eyes to widen and mouth to open in a soundless scream. Blood poured from the wound, more dripping from her mouth. Her tails fell lifeless, unmoving, as she slumped over, unmoving.

Brucie sighed, sounding somehow neither satisfied nor disappointed, as if the deed done was a foregone conclusion. "You fought well, girl," he muttered, "but not good enough. Sharks are better hunters than foxes, after all." He turned around and made as if to call for Oren when the telltale sound of electricity suddenly came from behind. He whirled around and instinctively lashed out with one of his mechanical arms, forcing Lily to duck to avoid getting a faceful of metal.

"How did you?" Brucie exclaimed, swinging at her again only for her to jump out of the way, electricity abandoned for the moment.

"You weren't quick enough," she replied tersely.

---

Brucie had almost killed her just then. Two seconds later and that jet of water would have done to her what she showed through her illusion. As long as Brucie had that water cannon she couldn't rely on ranged combat as much as she wanted to, and getting in close was hazardous.

Even now she was ducking and weaving, avoiding both teeth and metallic claws to the best of her ability. It seemed that now that she wasn't running away immediately, Brucie was more than happy to engage in the brutal series of swipes and bites, trying and failing to get ahold of her. Or, more accurately, trying to rip her to shreds.

Her speed and agility kept her out of reach of his claws, thankfully. She needed to get an advantage somehow. She did not possess the same natural weapons or raw physical power that her opponent did, so doing anything in melee that did not involve dodging was likely to yield either very little or no results whatsoever. But at range his cannon became a problem: It did not overheat, nor did it need to reload, and the fact that it was water made it a dangerous tool. Too much water on her tails and her ability to do anything but illusions and blasts of force would be voided.

And therein lies the answer, she thought. A well aimed force strike should destroy his cannon. She just needed a clear shot.

She jumped back, lightning once more dancing in the palm of her left hand, and then lunged forward. Brucie, having seen this trick before, moved his right arm so that the rubbery muscles blocked her strike, and in doing so gave Lily the opening she needed. Her right hand came forward, palm almost touching the cannon. A wave of invisible, kinetic force washed forth, pummeling the small construct until it was bent and broken, no more useful than a regular water pistol.

Lily did not give her opponents time to react from the sudden destruction of his one remaining weapon, instead disappearing into the shadows where she had the advantage.

"You cannot catch me," Lily said, voice disembodied and sourceless. "And your only remaining weapon is broken. You no longer have a chance of winning, so give up and I will let you live. I have dealt out too much death in my life already. You have one chance."

The rumble of Brucie's laughter pushed away the silence that followed Lily's statement. "You underestimate me, girl." From a small compartment in his left leg, he withdrew two small devices. "Watch and learn," he called before slamming the two together.

Out of the blue a massive bubble, easily big enough to cover the entire room, seemed to blink into existence. From up above Lily saw the unmistakable circles of warped space that signified a portal. From it rushed unbelievable amounts of water, flooding the floor and quickly rising - far quicker than it should have. It took twenty seconds at most before the entirety of the room they were in was flooded in seawater.

To Lily, who had tried desperately to keep herself dry, there was only one word that properly encomepassed her thoughts on the matter. And that was "Shit."

Fire would not work, and electricity would be hazardous. She could still create force pulses and illusions, but those were of limited use when surrounded by water. She had to find a way to win, but Brucie was not in the mood to just let her think.

It had not taken him long to find her, swimming toward her far quicker than her waterlogged body could move. She hadn't a choice. She had to try. She extended a hand and unleashed as powerful a blast of force as she could. It hit him head on, but far from as damaging as it would have been aboveground, the water taking the brunt of it. The blow forced him to veer off, making him circle her instead, waiting for the oppertune moment to strike.

Seconds ticked by, each moment bringing Lily closer to the point where she could no longer hold her breath. She needed an idea and she needed it now. She could only keep pushing him away for so long, not that exhaustion from continuous use of her powers would be a problem, as she would drown or become fish food long before that happened.

Brucie struck again, and again she shot at blast of energy out into the water, pushing herself out of the way. Barely. Metallic claws raked at her, leaving another line of shallow cuts along her leg.

I don't have time for this. It is the only thing I have that might work. If this fails - Tsukiko, I am sorry.

Brucie was still reorienting himself after his latest failed attack, which gave Lily the time that she needed. For the first time in years she pulled upon everything that she had, gathering every ounce of electricity that she have stored up within her, directing it to her hands. Focus! She told herself, gritting her teeth and fighting to not let it all out and electrocute herself. She could not afford to let even a little of it flow through her before it was unleashed. She had herself, and her target. From A to B, that was the only path allowed. Anywhere else and she risked death.

Brucie circleed her once again, eyeing her.

Lily raised her arm, the other supporting it, one finger extended.

Their eyes met.

Brucie grinned and made a rapid turn, speeding towards her.

Lily gave it her all to keep everything concentrated on only one point.

Then she fired.

From the tip of her finger erupted a flood of electricity, lightning striking Brucie before he even had time to register the attack, followed by a thunderous boom that shattered the bubble cause of water to spread everywhere and quickly reducing the water levels, allowing her to rise to the surface and finally breathe again.

It was over. She had won. She looked around at the rapidly dwindling, quickly finding the shark-man floating around in the water, or what remained of it. She watched as the remaining vestiges drained away, leaving the two of them on the ground again, though only Lily appeared to be conscious.

Strange. Now that she looked at him outside of the chaos of battle, she took notice of his own phylactery. Like hers it beat in a slow rhythm, much like that of a heart at rest, glowing a warm red as it did. It seems to still be active, which meant that he was not dead yet. The fact that she had not, after all, killed her opponent actually made her smile. She picked herself up and walked over to him, taking her own phylactery out in the meanwhile. He mentioned a mosquito. The thought flitted through her head as she bent down and punctured Brucie's phylactery with the syringe-like parts of our own.

Whatever she had thought would happen, it was not the pained screams of a tortured animal that currently came from Brucie. He thrashed and screamed, clearly seeking a way to diminish the pain, but whatever he tried the phylacteries remained remained locked together.

This one for thirty long seconds, after which both the erratic movements and the screams ceased. When they stopped, Lily was kneeling beside him, looking sorrowfully down on the creature she had just tortured so.

"I'm sorry," she said, almost at a whisper, meeting his now open eyes.

"Why are you sorry?" He asked, sounding genuinely confused.

"Because of the pain I inflicted you. I have seen it before. Once." She fell silent, at once wondering why he did not attack her as well as being grateful that the fight was now over between them.

"Why are you here?" He asked, still lying down.

"There is a man. I lost him a long time ago. He is the only thing I ever had that even resembled a parent." She paused. "Why are you here?"

At this Brucie laughed, weakened as he was. "Bein' a freak show's great for rippin', killin', and destroyin', but there's more to life than that... A lot more. I don't wanna be a weapon anymore. I wanna be human." He sighed. "Ship's sailed, I guess."

Someone wanting to be something they were not. The idea was not an alien one. She had met many such people in her life. The young ones wanting to be something strong and awesome, or the elderly ones simply wanting to not be harried by time.

"That's not impossible," she said at length, eyes trailing upwards. She pronounced each word slowly as if they came to her as she spoke them. Finally she looked down upon Brucie again, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. "I used to be human. I used to not have any powers whatsoever, but look at what I am now. In my world, we have the technology to change your very body into a completely different species. If you go there, they should be able to help you. They should be able to make you human. Once Oren gets here, let's see if we can get hold of some College people who can help you make a trip to my world. They should know how to get there. Help you visit."

The floating familiar finally answered her, as though its owner was taking his time coming out of a stupor. The see-through image of the announcer had lost some of its joviality, and what Pithy had taken to be the machine’s eyes were conspicuously angled away from the badger’s carcass.

She felt a swell of irritation at the thought that the young man overseeing these deathmatches could be having a pang of conscience. You who risk nothing and stand to gain everything through the sacrifices of strangers, and yet can’t stand to lay eyes on the price paid. How dare you cheapen this struggle so?

Still she managed to hold her tongue, understanding there was little to gain and much to lose from antagonizing the boy. When she was offered congratulations and an unexpected boon, she accepted them with an impassive gaze.

She gave the image she received a cursory inspection, but her heart skipped a beat when she recognized the larger figures. A slow breath escaped her nostrils, and she put away the small family portrait as though pouring cold water over her apprehension. The people of the Inquisitional College had already proven they knew more about her and the other competitors than they had any right to. Examining the matter could wait.

And so she found herself listening to the wistful words of the young announcer.

“I’ve often found myself wondering: do animals have noble souls? We think of them as so far beneath us, but in my experience, animals can be every bit as noble. It might seem silly to ya, but ya know, for a while I lived in the wild with ‘em. Wolves, ravens, rats…”

Pithy did not know whether to take the boy’s words at face value. She supposed it did not matter. Whether he had been raised by wolves or not was not the crux of the issue.

“If they have souls, some of those souls may be noble,” she admitted. Even then, the distinction meant little to her. Her concerns were ever more practical. “If they do not, I nearly died for nothing.”

The announcer let out a restrained laugh. She was not sure if her matter-of-fact words had roused him or if he had caught himself, but he quickly recovered the irritating persona he had first greeted her with. Pithy sighed, forcing herself to listen through the forced plays on words for whatever useful information the young man saw fit to give her.

Soon enough, the announcer had said his piece, and the image fizzled out, the familiar hovering back and studying her through mechanical eyes.

Pithy promptly spun on her heel and began to walk away from the burning storehouse, heading for the illuminated path.

The announcer had outlined her options. West to the coast. North to the city proper. East to her next enemy. South was out-of-bounds, whatever that meant. Would she find some kind of barrier or wall were she to head that way, or would she be disqualified from this tournament, whatever that entailed? She did not feel eager to see what would happen if she tried. However, not matter what she chose, there was a simple matter the announcer had neglected to consider in his explanation.

Under the cloudy skies of an alien world, Pithy had no immediate way of knowing the direction of the cardinal points.

It was because of this that she was making her way back to the citadel she had first appeared on. She had lost her bearings while chasing her previous opponents, but she had seen the beach from the rooftop of the building and as such could use the structure to orient herself.

Pithy allowed herself to consider her options as she walked.

The announcer had hinted at another ‘gan’-wielder. Whether they were as proficient as the badger had been remained to be seen, but the words of their overseer led her to believe they had the tools to be even more dangerous.

Staying in place and preparing for an assault brought its own difficulties. Even if she had time to prepare within this military facility, how likely was it that her enemy might find ways to turn the battlefield against her, as the badger had done? If the roiling skies above her finally caved and released a downpour, she might be able to take advantage of it. Would the water affect the weapons? It turned the shooters from her world even more unreliable, but she doubted that would apply to the ones the competition wielded. There were also plenty of places to hide from the rain.

Would the open space of a beach make for a better battlefield, then? She found herself recalling the final moments of the fight with the badger. The hastily conjured shield she had brought up had been destroyed by the beast’s shooters. Simply standing in an open space while facing an enemy with this kind of ranged weapon would be the height of stupidity. The sand would also make for treacherous terrain. If she could lead the enemy into such a position, however…

A pang of pain interrupted her thought, and she brought a gloved hand to her head. The cut she had sustained ached, but it was small. A burst of cold like ice numbed the wound.

The citadel was not far away now. She could see it rising over the buildings before her, but she kept walking. She recalled the corridors with words signaling underground access in the citadel’s ground floor.

The announcer had also asked a favor of her. Ordinarily, she might have placed more weight on the idea of being owed by an organization whose work seemed rooted in the study of mysterious machines and magical artefacts, but ordinarily she would also be working under the assumption that she would be able to call on those debts at a later date.

There will be no later if I am killed by whatever is down there. Or by another competitor. Should that not be my priority?

There was, however, no telling what she might find in the Justice Hub’s underground. There very well might be a device capable of aiding her below. Or at best hinder her next opponent, should they find her. She would not be surprised to learn the announcer had already informed her enemy of her position. It was possible that if she chose to explore the underground, she would have to fight her enemy in this area once again.

Her footsteps eventually drew her back to the citadel’s doors, the drone hovering a few paces behind her. She placed her hand on the swinging door, then grunted, the words of an old fable running through her head. If she did not know where she wished to go, it did not matter which way she turned.

“Announcer,” she called, pulling her hand away and turning to the watching familiar. Belatedly, she realized she had no clue as to the young man’s name. Asking had not so much as crossed her mind. She had a good idea as to the reason for that. “Hey. Kid.”

Her words went unacknowledged by the unthinking droid for a few quiet moments. The rumble of distant thunder resounded through the heavens, and a moment after, a nigh-indiscernible beep accompanied the illumination of a tiny green light next to the drone’s main optic. Something that sounded suspiciously like the slurp of a drink reached Pithy through the communicator, and after it came the voice the cryomancer had come to know and hate. “I gotta name, ya know. Don’t wear it out. They ain’t paying me the big bucks to be a living F.A.Q.” He likely realized that she had no clue what he meant, but did not seem too bothered by it. “Oren. Erumel. My old buddies—and yes, I did have buddies—called me the Genie, ‘cause I always tried to help people out. Nothing like the Wishing Machine, though. What’s eating ya?” His image leaned back in its chair, and he clasped his hands behind his head in a position of relaxation.

Oren, then. Whoever had given this one an affectionate nickname had clearly been armed with more patience than her. “I’m thinking of checking underground, but I expect some support if I do. There’s no point to doing work that’s already been done. I want a guide to the ‘generator’ room and help with the machines I’m not familiar with.” Namely, most that she had seen so far, but she felt that should best remain unsaid.

The easygoing smile on Oren’s face broadened. “Neheh, that’s funny. As it happens, I’m not privy to the College’s inner workings. Truth be told, I don’t think they like me. Can ya imagine?”

Oh, I can imagine.

“There should be lots of signs around to guide ya, and I saw ya use the elevator, so help yours-’elf’. I think you’ll be just fine. As for support, you’ve seen everything my drones can do, and they’re not all that great indoors.”

Pithy clicked her tongue. She had not expected armed help, but if the boy had no knowledge of any previous expeditions to the facility, he would be of limited use.

“I imagine your bosses won’t be too enthused by how little you did to convince me to do the College’s work for them,” she prodded nonetheless. There was little meaning to the jab at that point. She was merely fishing for reactions or information.

“Meh!”

Gods I hate him.

“It’s all bonus.” Oren evidently took the woman’s reaction as dismissal. “Guess ya don’t want any reward. Favors aside, coulda been anything down there, like more artifacts.”

“Or more turrets. Or more of what spooked the College’s teams. I suppose if I die in that hole the tournament can keep going without a hitch, then. Or are you that confident in the abilities of the freaks you brought here?”

“Are you? I thoughtcha guys were supposed to be strong enough to claim a wish--the best thing there is. Handling a trigger-happy badger wasn’t the best showcase of your abilities, but ya seem tough enough. Tougher ‘n me, that’s for sure.” He shrugged. “Whatever. Means more for us!” The announcer chuckled for a moment, then leaned forward into the camera, his voice growing low. “Speaking of which, since you’re free...if ya ever make your way to the Governmental Hub, where your next opponent is, there’s another little something ya might busy yours-’elf’ with, neheh.”

Pithy rubbed at her temple. “Stars, quit that. I heard you the first time.”

Oren’s eyelid twitched. Had he really already used that one? He needed to pay better attention, lest his humor begin to grow annoying. “A-ah, I see. Well. Better deal than poking around beneath the fort if ya ask me.”

She sighed. Her enemy would have fought their first round somewhere in the Governmental Hub. They would have some knowledge of the terrain and the possibility to prepare ambushes for her if they chose to wait.

“I’ll keep it in mind. Thank you, Oren,” she added to her dismissal, if only to maintain the pretense of civility. The announcer’s face faded out, and the little light by the main lens went with it, leaving Pithy alone with the soulless automaton once again.

The relief she felt at her solitude in an alien military facility was more than a little telling. Still, that had not been as productive as she had hoped. All that talk had earned her was a headache, and the knowledge that there were more opportunities for her to risk her life to the east. Fantastic. Just what I needed.

It did not make choosing a course of action any simpler. Which also meant it was the simplest thing in the world. If she already stood to lose everything, how much meaning was there to hedging her bets? If she was to find a shaved knuckle in the hole, her most immediate bet was what was under the Justice Hub.

With that resolution, she entered the building and headed for the elevator as Oren had suggested. The wait that ensued once she had pressed the button afforded her ample time to reflect on how many ways her plans could go sideways.

As Tyrant shifted his eyes from shadow to shadow, his muscles tensed up to react to any sort of odd movement, the ogre was simply waiting for the opponent to make their first strike. The Ogre found some hilarity from the College's rather coy nature from choosing their locations, being placed within the very same blood drenched arena that made him Tyrant was going to be his first battle in this soon to be blood drenched city-wide arena. Gripping ever so tightly to his Giant Eater, Tyrant had finally heard yet another subtle movement within the shadows with his entire mass shifting to the noise. And ever low-and-behold, within his ever-growing vision was soon set upon his soon-to-be enemy. Tyrant sized them up almost instantly as they surprisingly helped him with first revealing their position, walking into the dim light, and in a general sense was without bloodlust in their posture. They were obviously trying to be non-threatening, well, as non-threatening as one Jester could be with a ceaseless grin and clothing sporting several human organs. The clothing reminded him of an agent of chaos, nordic bastards that pillage and raid their money pots from time to time, and one of the armies of the Old World that threaten the regular quota of wartime and bloodshed. Tyrant still eyed him with suspicion, his muscles were tensed up for a beat down, but within his knowledge this Jester wasn't within the atrium with the rest of the opponents which meant it was some type of monster if that wasn't obvious by their appearance. So, Tyrant simply watched as the Jester monster spoke with an eerie sing-song voice.

"You, Fool, while I see that you aren't one of the contestants in this tournament of the strong. You still dare tell the Tyrant what to do with his time, and have the gall to threaten a giant like me?" The Tyrant said, his booming voice echoing across the torn down Maw-Pit. The both of them eyed each other down, the tension within the air high as the Tyrant flex his fingers around the bone of an extinct giant race as the Jester playfully wielded their knives. Only a few more tense moments passed between the two before the Tyrant made his first move against the Jester as his muscles began to form into a... slab-full grin.

A hearty laugh soon escaped from his greased lips, his fat folds giggling with the consistency of gelatin with the air being cleared up from the near deadly battle. A few more seconds of this laughter soon brought the Tyrant, raising his Giant Eater to rest upon his shoulder as his other hand started to scratch what was left of his neck. "Fool, I see that you are not here to fight. Whatever you may be, while you smell and look delicious, I'll see to it that we fight on a later date for I have another fight waiting for me and I need all my strength to assure a complete stomp with a gory feast. I best hope you don't reveal yourself like this once again, for if you do I'll splatter you in this bloodied hall without another thought." With a toothy grin on his face, the Tyrant passed by the Jester with his long strided walk towards the ladder. As the ogre sheathed his Giant Eater, his Sound Eater clanking against the club, he placed his grubby hand onto the large ladder with a firm grip. "You best not die before I come back down, it'd be a shame for your flesh to go to waste," Tyrant remarked, the ogre finally climbing up ladder towards the upper lands of the city.

She pressed her back against one of the shelves there, trying to control her breathing.

One of those old guns, plus what seemed to be a magician. Not opponents she'd enjoy fighting, and certainly not together at the same time. Juniper calmed herself, trying to think of a good plan. She was still bleeding from the previous horde of anons; it was not serious enough to be life threatening, but it was not stopping for a while yet. And if she was bleeding, she would be leaving a trail of blood to where she was hiding.

Meanwhile, the Crimson Cavalier was tracking down his opponent, smirking as he followed the trail of blood through the library. The foolish human, thinking she can escape him just like that. His smirk grew wider as he realized the blood spatters on the floor was getting more tightly grouped. That meant she had stopped running and started walking. That means that human was close. With a grin, he dashed towards the end of the trail, drawing out his dual swords for that finishing blow. A quick death and a quick victory awaits him. But... .

The blood trail ended there.

His eyes widened as he realized there was twice as many blood spatters in this row, that means...

Westley the Crimson Cavalier turned, reaching for one of his staves on his back, but it was too late. The blood trail was a trap, a simple one where she had walked there before backtracking on the trail itself before hiding herself. With great speed she slammed her palm into his sternum, sending one of his staves clattering away as he collapsed on the floor. Both of them had barely enough time to do more, before shots rang out in the library, tearing through books and shelves as they scrambled for cover.

Annoyed by the persistent creature and the fact he was duped into a trap, Westley summoned up a flying object to shoot back towards the anon, exchanging fire with great ferocity. Juniper on the other hand, had grabbed the fallen staff while crawling away. Let them fight amongst themselves for now. She had no intention of fighting something without a good plan.

"You know, I'm not going to criticize your guerrilla tactics here, but maybe we could take this outside, and not harm the ancient ruins? Seems like a real shame to me if anything got damaged in our fight." The infidel was yapping again. What was it with this mustachioed foreigner and talking? If he didn't have those insane powers, Serhan would have been able to end this so very quickly. He made use of a small hand mirror hidden in his armor to peak around the corner without exposing his head, only to see the idiot was still wandering rather aimlessly. Serhan smiled to himself as the pirate stepped a little too close to one of his invisible traps. The time to strike was now.

The Bashibozuk jumped out of cover, and hurled a small ball directly at his foe. Captain K. Runch turned just in time to see a little black ball heading his way. With a great skill, he swat at the thing with his spoonsaber to bat the weapon away. Things didn't work out as intended. The little black ball exploded in a large blast of smoke, enveloping the captain. Coughing and wheezing, Runch stumbled back several steps until he couldn't step anymore. Resistance met with sharp pain, the intense sensation of something slicing into his ankles and back. The pirate captain lost his balance entirely, flailing onto the ground, tearing razored garrote wire from the walls and getting wrapped up in it. "AAAARGH!" he cried out. Serhan, his pleasure showing in his gait, closed the distance. Only a few feet away from his target, wrapped up and being torn apart in his wire trap, the Turkish hitman lifted a single gun to shoot his thrashing prey.

Struggling, feeling the wire biting deeper, the Cereal Killer caught sight of his opponent and smiled, his thrashing movements altogether stopped. "Omnomnom! Gotcha! Bori bori eruption!" From every square inch of his skin cereal formed and poured forth all at once. The garrote strained and strained, then snapped and flew apart in several pieces just as the cereal pellets flew about every which way. Cap'n Runch jumped back up to his feet, his clothing in tatters and bleeding quite a bit, but seemingly unfazed by his ordeal. Meanwhile, Serhan sensed the danger just in the nick of time. He managed to dodge out of the way before any of the cereal pellets collided with his body, taking cover behind a pillar. A total escape it was not, for a piece of his razored wire whipped around, slashing into his left thigh. The Turkish man grit his teeth and dealt with it. He'd had worse before.

"Phew! I'm going to have to watch my step! Good show, mister... Whatever your name is. Almost peeled my bananas before they were ripe!" Runch took a moment to pick up his bicorn hat and place it upon his head. "That feller on the screen was right, I let my curiosity get the better of me for sure! Now you're at a great field advantage! Might have to do something about that..." Runch tapped the end of his saber against the very pillar that Serhan had taken refuge behind. Had the pirate noticed where his opponent hid himself during the confusion? Or was this just some sort of quirk?

Taking advantage of the spoonsaber's unique shape and curvature, the good captain swung the blade about neck level around the pillar. The assassin was not so easily caught off guard, and brought up his own blade to block the unusual weapon. The straight blade of the yatagahn caught on the serrated spoonhead, locking the weapons in place. Runch pulled backward in an attempt to force the blade into his enemy from behind, while Serhan braced the back of his sword with his spare arm. The two struggled against one another for several moments, faces turned red, sweat formed and ran down their brows. Finally, the Bashibozuk summoned a reserve of strength from within and broke the stalemate. Taking a calculated risk, he relaxed his muscles and ducked down quickly. The spoonsaber pulled back, scraping along the stone pillar, while Serhan dodged around the side and thrust at Runch.

The Cereal Killer recovered, albeit barely, sidestepping just in time to avoid a stab to the gut. He swung his sword around, but Serhan recovered his form as well and parried. Slash met slash, thrust met parry, blade struck only metal as the two performed a dance of deadly blades at great speed. In an ever spinning duel they fought, neither gaining any ground on the other. Cap'n K. Runch's childlike, joyful smile was matched blow for blow by the Bashibozuk's narrowed glare of determination. Finally, the stalemate was broken as Runch brought his sword down diagonally at Serhan's neck. The hitman blocked the neck of the blade, but with a simple sawing motion Runch sliced the large spoonhead into Serhan's left shoulder.

"Gah!" he grunted in pain.

"You can talk! Omnomnom, I thought I was fighting a mute the whole time!"

He was talking again. Good. If this infidel had any major weaknesses, it was that naive state of mind, something a trained killer was all too eager to take advantage of. His tactic would sacrifice some of his flesh and blood, but the results should be worth it. Serhan lifted up his non-dominant leg, the motion forcing the serrated spoonhead deeper into his shoulder, and kicked into his prey's solar plexus. Reacting quick as he could, Runch pulled back, tearing his sword out of his opponent in the process, and moved to block with his left arm. The good captain couldn't possibly have predicted what would happen.

BANG!

The gun hidden in the Bashibozuk's pants triggered. A bullet ripped through the air such a short distance and into the gut of Bartholomew K. Runch. The captain stumbled back, clutching his wound with his free hand, then shot a glare at Serhan. His glare was returned by a sadistic smile.

"Cheap shot. Rotten, like overripe grapes." He began breathing harder. Serhan had to give credit, this pirate;s fortitude was to be admired. Still standing after a point blank bullet to the gut? Covered in razor cuts? The sight only reaffirmed what the assassin had figured before: he could never have won in a direct fight. Not without a few cheap shots. Well, the time to muse was over. Time to finish off his target, but not before he suffers.

As Serhan slowly approached, brandishing his yataghan menacingly, K. Runch knew he had to regroup. He did some major damage, his enemy's left arm was going to be useless, but if he didn't catch a second wind then Runch knew he'd lose out on stamina soon. He grit his teeth. He had to use that technique. It'd be a real shame. This place was somethin' else, alright. Bartholomew sighed, sheathed his sword, and held his hand out. "Bori bori marble slip."

Expecting another stream of tiny iron-like balls to shoot out at him, Serhan took a defensive stance. He was surprised to find that instead the pirate captain only dribbled round cereal pellets out of his palm, which slowly rolled toward him. Was this it? Marble slip implied they were supposed to trip him up, but he could easily step over and around these obstacles. No, this enemy was more dangerous than he let on. Something else was afoot here. The assassin kept one eye on the foodstuff littering the floor, and another on his opponent's face, trying to read the pirate's expression.

Runch gave another gleeful, childlike grin. "... Hellberry Recipe. Boom."

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Like tiny grenades each little marble exploded in a violent fragmentation, leaving behind scorch marks, smoke, and flame. Each explosion fed into the next, creating one large blast. Serhan was prepared for something tricky, but nothing before had indicated his opponent could use explosives. He dodged out of the way, but was still tossed violently by the shockwave. He collided with the floor and rolled until stopped by another pillar. Runch was also thrown back by his own explosion, but in a far more controlled manner. He propelled himself backwards with a stream of cereal from his feet, a technique he called the bori bori rocketskate, and took his own cover.

Got a moment to myself. Ok, good. Need to stop the bleeding. I'll fight with a bullet in my gut if I have to. Concentrating on where it hurt most, Runch generated a large cereal pellet at the surface of his wound using a recipe designed to be extra absorbent. After a few seconds, he caught his breath and stood up tall, ready to continue the fight.

All that lay between the elevator and the generator room were hallways, stairways, and corridors. The occupants of this place before the City of Echoes reached its current state had, evidently, endeavored to keep everything clean and organized for maximum efficiency and professionalism. Only benches, wastebins, doors, overhead lights, and of course the promised signs really interrupted the spick-and-span monotony of Pithy's voyage downward. The farther she descended, however, the greater the feeling of isolation grew. Fewer lights were fully functional, doors were open, and conspicuous cracks appeared in the walls. After a short while the intruder left the more administrative section behind, with its bounty of offices and computers, to enter the maintenance section. The signs directed her through a janitorial complex, which evidently took care of the laundry of the entire citadel, and through a server farm, which to Pithy might seem monolithic or alien. She arrived at the generator room without a hitch, other than a detour past one nonfunctional elevator down an emergency staircase.

An odd noise came from behind the closed door. It resounded through the floor and walls, a violent, clattering whir, rather unlike a typical gasoline, hydroelectric, or even geothermal generator. Someone more familiar with such machines might begin to wonder, but for Pithy, all that remained was to open the door. It gave stubborn resistance, not because it was locked, but because of some kind of physical barrier on the other side. The bottom of the door could move far less than the middle to top, implying that the obstruction was powerful but low to the ground.



As one might expect from an abandoned amusement park, everything was quiet. Around Bonesword, no matter where he went, there was only the desolate shell of a place that had once brought much joy and excitement. Beneath the pier, the steady lap of waves turned into a dull roar, and drops of rain spattered against the metal and plastic surfaces of the various attractions, creating a medley of tinny tapping noises. Given the size and confusing layout of the place, it was a while before the skeleton found his first clown.

His skin was pure white, his nose covered by a giant red ball, his wig a giant poofy afro, and his clothes a set of giant, baggy purple pajamas with multicolored stars. He sported no sign of decomposition, and indeed appeared very lifelike, but there was no mistaking the limp slump with which sprawled in one of the cars of the teacup ride. He lay like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Nothing besides his bizarre appearance stood out about him on first glance, unless Bonesword realized the oddity of having a body in a city whose entire population had vanished without a trace. No amount of probing the clown's heart or his wrists would change that he had no pulse, however. This wasn't some lunatic playing dead. However, it could be assured that there was something more to this freak than met the eye.



The air in the City of Echoes grew thicker, and the skies swelled in preparation for a deluge. Before long, the first few drops began to fall, quite literally raining on Mountain's parade. When the clouds burst, they let forth a torrential downpour. Lightning streaked across the heavens, and the rolling thunder came right on its heels. Any good thunderstorm could drench an unprepared individual and render the streets flooded, but this storm seemed somehow more dire. Far removed from a mere drizzle, the rain fell in ounces and with the speed of bullets. In no time at all, low sections of street without a drainage duct filled up with water, and in the pounding storm trash cans and motorcycles began to wash away. Mountain's brand-new hoverboard, which might have availed him as an ark above the rising water, did not seem technologically advanced enough to ride on top of water; its propulsion needed a solid surface to repel itself from, and thus it would be flooded out sooner or later.

Shelter—any good introvert or escapist treasured it, and in the face of this kind of weather, it stood out as a priority. Virtually every building in the vicinity was locked tight, though to someone packing serious heat, locks without security guards to confront their breakers did not make for much of an obstacle. Through the heavy rain, a keen eye could just barely catch a glimpse of a building unlike the others. Its rough cylinder shape made it look more like a medieval guard tower than anything, though at this distance nothing much more could be discerned. That structure wasn't the only mystery that faced the shooter, however. For a short time now, his keen gamer's senses had been telling him that he was being watched. Who or from where they couldn't say, but the underlying ominous presence remained nonetheless.



For a quiet moment, it looked like Brucie might share Lily's spark of hope, but no longer. That rough, snarlish grumble of a laugh came again. “Nah. Wasn't meant to be. Way I see it, this whole business is called 'the Crucible' 'cause it burns away all the bad stuff. My wish wasn't good enough to win.” His mechanical limbs got to work, flipping him over and then pushing him into a standing position. Once again, he loomed over Lily, though this time his barren eyes held no malintent. “It ain't that bad, though. Y'know, you coulda killed me, but you didn't. I owe you.”

“Are ya gonna 'tank' her? Ooh! Or maybe, give her your 'fangs'?” Oren's drone zoomed into sight, its projection of the man himself just now coming online. He looked especially gleeful. “I was always here, foxie. Watchin' the whole time. What a 'jaw'-some fight! Never though I'd see a game of cat and mouse with a shark and a kitsune. Brucie, my man! Thoughtcha had it in the bag when you used your Shark Tank, butcha had to get zapped in the nose, didn't ya? Well, no problem. Looks like it's the first fight of the evening with two survivors. Good on ya, fluffer—that's the honest 'tooth'.” He furrowed his brow, though without letting up that smile, and scratched his scalp. “Sorry to say though, Brucie's right about the whole 'wasn't meant to be' thing. The College ain't some wish-fulfillment service. Even if they were, I'm basically the mascot to their pro football team, if you catch my drift. Ain't got much of a say in matters.”

The young man's long, slender fingers reached forward to press a button on the console before him with dramatic emphasis. A moment after he did, the grips on the underside of the drone detached, and the box crashed into the floor. The loss of weight rocked the machine and set it flying up into the ceiling, which it hit with an awkward thunk while Oren tried to regain control. “To the winner...” his voice sounded out from the unstable contraption. “...Go the spoils!”



As Lily rummaged in the prize package, she inquired to Oren about potential lodging. The announcer was only too happy to start talking once again. “Well! This place might not look like much, but it's not awful. Bet there's a nice office somewhere you could hole up in. Not far from here, there's a place called No-man's Land that's a little settlement surrounded a buncha big machines. Isn't it funny that it's a camp for humans, but it's inhabited by robots? I sure think so. It's 'gear'-ing up to rain soon, so if you're going for it, better high-'tail' it while the going's good.”

The drone made as if to depart, but Brucie's churlish rumble reached him once more. “Hey! What'm I s'posed to do?”

Oren steered the surveillance machine back around. He wore an upbeat yet bemused expression, as if the answer should be obvious but it wasn't a problem. “Whatever ya want! Explore the city, grab a bite to eat, team up with Lily...the world is your oyster! Make your way back to the College, or find some of 'em walking around, and you can go back to your own world. Take care of yourself, bud!” With that, like a spirit leaving its possessed body, Oren vanished from the husk of the drone, and all that was left was a floating camera watching the pair in silence.



Except for the rhythmic twirl of his knives, the jester remained still during the staredown, his eyeless slits locked with Tyrant's brutish peepers. Despite having a range advantage with the assumption that those slender daggers were meant for throwing, he did not seem eager to make the first move at all. When the standoff ended as ogre's face broke out into a craggy grin, a thin sigh issued from the jester's unmoving mouth. He ceased his show with the knives and returned to balancing them while Tyrant's convulsive laughter echoed through the cavern. It seemed that there would be no fight after all, though the ogre did make sure that the jester knew that another encounter would be the end of him. The jester did not deign to disagree, and instead executed a low bow as Tyrant passed on his way to the great machine that would serve as his ladder.

With that oaf out of the way, he headed toward the side of the cavern that overlooked the great void. Far below, illuminated by pale lights dim and distant, the unmistakable silhouette of an ancient city loomed.

"It͏ i̧s̀ h̴ęre ̴th͜e͝n. A pr̨ize ́b̴eyon̨d cơmp͏a͢r̷e̸
͞Ńo҉w̷ I n̵eed͝ fi͘nd ͜o̸ǹly ̸t̴h͞at͏ ͠e͟rra̡n͘t ́oo҉z̧e̴
͢A҉n͝d yet ̡I k͜no̢w͏ ͜C͠ar͝re͘ąu̶ ͟a͟w̸ai͞t́s̸ my̢ ̕word͝
I̛ shall͠ ͏de͠p͜ar̵t̛.͠ ̴ O͡ r̵i̴ng̢,̶ 'tis̴ ͏I͠, M̴ar͜ơt͢te̢!͠

All at once, he flung his knives into the air, seized the ring upon his finger, and twisted its face. A white light, giving off projections of feathers, began to build beneath him. One by one, he caught each falling blade on a fingertip, and no sooner had he retrieved the last one than the light burst upward and consumed him in a flash. The next instant, when the light disappeared, so had Marotte.

A few drops of rain, lonely omens of the coming storm, fell down the enormous mineshaft and plopped against Tyrant's skin. Above him, a strange battle raged, and he could already hear the music from here.



Had Motley gotten any closer, the smith would have surely noticed, but as it was the man continued at his work without becoming aware of the new arrival. He completed the runes that ran up the blade's center and experimentally moved the sword through the air in an arc. It left behind a slight but distinguishable trail of azure blue as it slid from side to side, and even in the hands of an obvious amateur swordsman its dance was fluid. After this, the smith set to polishing the blade with a set of oils and cloths in a kit by his foot, still oblivious to the vampire's presence. It was then that the newcomer elected to speak.

The seated metalworker, not startled by the sudden speech, looked up with a collected composure. His hands did not stop moving across the blade, though their work slowed down now that their owner's focus had shifted. First came a compliment, no doubt to break the ice and ease any tension. “Hm.” To the sharp-eyed smith, this guy looked a little like a creep, but he did not give any indication of uneasiness. No matter how strange of an encounter this might be in the dead of night in an abandoned city, he gave off the impression of boredom—or jadedness. His rough features and blank expression seemed to say, you're a weirdo, but nothing bothers me any more. When he was shown Motley's phylactery, no recognition sparked in his eyes. After a few moments, he replied. “Well. I'm not sure about any tournament. I've seen and talked to a few people, but I'm not with anyone. Don't even remember how I got here.” He bundled up the sword and set it aside. “Interesting-looking people are always trouble. Even if I did know, it'd be stupid to trust someone I just met, when he didn't even tell me his name.”

He leaned back. “But whatever. Not a lot of people just walk up and admit they're murderers, and I'm not some uptight puzzle master who loves his secrets, so I'll tell you what I can. I don't know exactly what you've got there, but it kinda looks like a Soul Shell that Regalia uses to hold souls before we make 'em into weapons. They work like reservoirs for coffee machines; just need the right kind of nozzle to get the goods out.” As best he could from his distance -which is to say, getting as close as he could without invading a killer's personal space- the smith pointed at the little compartment window in the phylactery's center. “There's the hole.” His finger traveled to the spike pointing out from the heart's underside. “There's the nozzle.” Like a turtle pulling its extraneous parts into its shell, he retracted his hand and jammed it into a pocket. “That's all I got. Alright?”

Stone and tile cracked. Floor had been shattered, a few pillars blackened and weak, and numerous pews had been completely eradicated, while others had been set ablaze. Captain Bartholomew K. Runch looked upon his handiwork with a feeling of disappointment. A frown and furrowed brow relayed his emotions. Bringing about this kind of destruction sucked, plain and simple. The place was beautiful! Ah, but between a beautiful ruin and his life, the choice couldn't be easier. Hopefully his opponent had been taken out in the explosion, but the cap'n wasn't going to count his strawberries before they ripened. That assassin was around here somewhere, defeated or able bodied. He couldn't afford to declare himself victor prematurely and give that man the opportunity for yet another cheap shot.

While captain K. Runch moved around in search of his quarry, the Bashibozuk took refuge in a dark doorway off the side of the large chamber hall. There was enough shadow that he could blend in well, enough cover that he could be reliably safe from attack, and enough room to move if the infidel spotted him. He placed his good hand on his face, flinching at the burning sensation. He lacked any way to visually confirm, but gauging how he felt Serhan estimated that about a third of his face had been melted in the explosion. Unacceptable. The cold-hearted killer's psychotic emotions began to well up. No target had ever proven this much trouble. No prey could fight back with such strength. This... Bizarre display was overpowering his careful strategy and brilliance! This was not! Acceptable! The worst Serhan had ever experienced in the past was when he tracked that sikh through Istanbul. The sikh's bodyguard got the drop on him, but even then Serhan killed both men with only a scar on his chest to pay for it. No. No infidel was going to best the Bashibozuk. Hajji Serhan Güzelemöglu, the Sultan's Favorite, would get his mark. He just needed to recount his resources, the battlefield, and his enemy's abilities. Then he would create the ultimate tactic to slay this fool once and for all!

Cap'n K. Runch first checked near where his opponent had been when he set off the Hellberries. Apart from some burning flesh, there wasn't a trace of the man. As far as he was concerned, that confirmed his assailant to be well and active, so he maintained his guard. But how would he find this enemy? How could he fight someone that was at one with the shadows? So far he had been lucky to stave off the lethal ambushes. The first was spoiled by the man inside the screen, something that hasn't happened since so he couldn't count on that. The second time he just happened to catch sight of the attack a fraction of a second in time, and even then suffered for it. Twice in a row was fantastic, but he couldn't rely on luck for long. Would destiny pull a hat trick on him? Unlikely. Runch's nose crinkled as he checked around a corner, to no avail, then he sighed. How could he find this trained killer? He closed his eyes and remembered the advice of his first mate.

"When dealing with a ninja, remember that we will do anything to get the upper hand. There's no such thing as rulse in a battle to the death, or an assassination."

Runch suddenly found himself in the past, sitting aboard his ship not long after setting sail with his first two crewmates, Smith and Hachirou. It was largely circumstance he had been captain. Smith was starving, alone on a derelict vessel in the sea when Runch came along and saved his life. In return the ninja pledged his loyalty. Everything after that just sort of fell into place. An old cereal chef with hardly any combat experience to his name, suddenly in command of an elite shadow warrior, with more to follow. Smith took it upon himself to train the "captain."

"I can hardly find you around the ship as it is! How can I find someone that hides in the shadows and gets all dirty like that?"

"You don't," the ninja pirate answered earnestly.

"Well this'll go well," Runch responded flatly.

"You don't find us. You let us find you. If I will take every possible advantage that I can, then you must let me-"

"Let them think they have the advantage..." the pirate captain murmured, back in the present. Well well, those many hours of getting knocked around by his subordinate were good for something other than training up his raw skill after all!

Thinking quickly of a plan, Runch glanced around left and right for any sign of the Turkish man, then made his way back to the podium at the head of the cathedral hall. Once there, he spoke to put his plan into action. "Olly olly oxenfree! Come out wherever you are! ... No? Alright then, I give up. I'll just be sitting here until you're ready." With that, cap'n K. Runch kicked back on the spot, seemingly to relax.

Serhan watched from the shadows, half his face covered by torn cloth from his shirt. The pirate was now mocking him. Or at least, that was how it appeared to Serhan. The assassin took in a deep breath to calm himself. The pig would be gut and skinned soon enough. He merely had to wait for the perfect opportunity. He had assessed the resources still on hand, counted off the traps that remained untriggered, and now he just had to ensure the prey took the optimal position. Luckily the pirate was moving into such a position now. He smiled to himself. While hiding behind that very same podium minutes before, the Bashibozuk had stuck a fragmentation bomb there, just in case. It just needed to be set off. The plan went through his mind, an intricate clock with winding, interlocking pieces. First draw the pirate's attention with a smoke bomb tossed at the opposite end of the hall. Then rush his position while his attention is momentarily elsewhere, and fire upon him with the guns on hand. Leave the grappling hook attached to this nook and kick the podium on the target, triggering the pressure-sensitive bomb. Tug the grapple and brace for the explosion's shockwave, recover in the air to safety. If he survives that point blank explosion, finish him off with sidearms.

One. Two. Three. Go!

Phase one in motion, Serhan tossed a smoke bomb as hard as he could clear on the other side of the cathedral hall. With a semi-loud poof it blasted into a large cloud of black smoke. Phase two engaged. Serhan ran as quickly as he could, ignoring all the pain resonating through his injured body. His left arm useless, he fired multiple shots at the pirate sitting at the podium, first draining his hidden sleeve revolver, then firing off two bullets from a secondary gun disguised as a cigarette box. His prey failed to react in time, taking every single bullet to the chest. Not good enough, he was inhumanly durable. Phase three, the distance had been cleared. His target was either dead, or his reaction time had dropped to zero thanks to the previous gut shot and now multiple bullet wounds. Serhan leaped into the air to drop kick the podium, surprised to find his body tugged back, violently striking the floor. What happened?! Had he misjudged the length of his grappling rope? No, that couldn't be it! Serhan braced his good hand against the floor to get up, yet met with strong resistance. Not only that, but he felt something... Sticky?

"Omnomnomnom! Got you!" That damn laugh! That annoying voice! Serhan did his best to look around, to see where it was coming from, but he struggled to move at more than a sloth's pace. By Allah, what was this sticky stuff?!

"Bori bori honey trap." Runch moved into Serhan's view, kneeling down to meet his gaze. A very suggestive wink followed. "I experimented with tons of recipes to see what the best floor trap would be to immobilize my enemies, but nothing beat good ol' honey! Omnomnomnom!"

"You... How?!" The Bashibozuk spoke to his prey for the first time. "You are over there!" he attempted gesture with his head, but couldn't get more than a few centimeters of motion. "How are you here?!"

"Omnomnomnom! Now you're open to some conversation! Good! Well the me that you shot is just a replica! A delicious replica, filled with all the nutrients you'll need for a whole month! Omnomnomnom! I call it my bori bori mascot surprise!" The pirate captain stood up, drawing his spoonsaber. Serhan narrowed his eyes.

"Fine then. Send me to meet Allah, infidel. I will enjoy Paradise, while you will burn in holy fire!"

Runch quickly lowered his blade down onto Serhan, staying his hand just before striking the man down. Using the tip of his weapon Runch tapped around Serhan's body, feeling about until he found what he was looking for. With a swift slash, the Turk assassin's clothing was further torn, and the strap of his phylactery along with it.

"Killing is distasteful," Runch commented, lifting the prize up to his eyes. "And taste is very important to a chef. Besides, the kids that invited me here mentioned there were other ways to win. I'm sure I can figure it out."

"Fool! Do you not realize that if you do not kill me, I will track you down until your dismembered corpse lies beneath my fe-OOMPH!" The sound of metal on flesh echoed in the hall, the flat end of the spoonsaber having struck Serhan's skull, knocking the man out cold. Runch sheathed his weapon and took a seat in one of the undamaged pews as he looked over both phylacteries now in his possession.

"Now let's see... Those kids said our souls were in here, and killing them frees it up. Now I don't want to kill nobody, so... Hrm... The soul is still in here, right? Do I... Finagle them? Break his? No no no, last resort. Don't want to kill his soul by accident. Um.. Hmm.." The musings continued on for several minutes as Runch contemplated the devices in his hands. How to be declared the winner without death? How to transfer the soul of one to the other? Time passed, the clock ticked as he fruitlessly pondered. Serhan even woke up once, only to be quickly clobbered over the head again. Finally, Captain Bartholomew K. Runch figured it out. Well, stumbled into the answer is more appropriate, but it was a victory all the same. Using the bottom end of his own phylactery, he was able to stab into the other.

Motley nodded, his curiosity about as satisfied as it could be. And he was certainly the smith had pointed out that the spike was what drained the soul, rather than the hole; otherwise he might well have believed the opposite was true, essentially forfeiting the tournament over a stupid mistake. Then again, that could be wrong... but, in this case, he felt the man knew what he was talking about.

'Well, I thank you for your exposition, sir,' he uttered as he put the phylactery back where it belonged, only to gaze somewhat curiously at the smith as he recalled what the man had said... had he ever actually admitted outright to being a murderer himself? He was quite sure he hadn't, and pointed out as much to the smith. 'Not,' he added to that, 'that you're necessarily wrong, either... but, much as it may seem otherwise, I tend to avoid killing those who don't deserve it. I imagine most people in this tournament wouldn't deserve it, whether or not their souls are forfeit if they lose.

'Besides, you're quite one to talk,' he continued, gesturing to the man's half-polished sword. 'I'd argue turning another being's soul into a weapon involves at least a little murder, if not on the crafter's part. Or am I wrong, and your fresh-forged blade is in fact free of captured souls and associated mystical abilities?' He didn't exactly intend to sound standoffish- in fact, if he thought about it, the matter really didn't concern him at all- but it did rile him a little that somebody would gladly work with the fruits of that most ubiquitous of worldly acts, only to shy away from those who reaped the raw materials in the first place. It smacked of hypocrisy to him, which wasn't bothersome on its own, but had been made somewhat personal by the smith associating Motley with the latter activity by default.

And, in fairness, he was curious about what the sword actually did. Those runes probably weren't just for show, after all... perhaps his subtle suggestion would drive the smith to demonstrate the powers of the blade in question, if he was lucky. Or, as the case may be, unlucky, should they be used on him instead.

Bonesword / Fungal Knight

What in the hell...? The skeletal swordsman stood over the limp and lifeless clown and simply observed him for a minute, the Shroomblade drawn and at his side as he watched. The clown was quite out of place for the drab and deserted atmosphere of the area around him. Nobody else was around, in both body and soul, except this carnival freak, Bonesword, and Big-Big. Thankfully the only one who seemed alive at the time was Bonesword. He prepped his sword to shove into the clown's chest and finally drove it in, hopefully killing the clown if he wasn't already dead. After pulling out his blade, the skeleton climbed off of the teacup ride and went over to one of the carnival stalls.

Once there, the skeleton climbed over the counter and sat on a stool behind it, looking like an out-of-place worker in the carnival at this point. The idea of it made him snicker with a bit of childlike glee. "Heh. 'Step right up folks, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!' the skeleton chuckled away to an invisible crowd of people. "'Toss a ring onto the bottle and win yourself a bear!' Why did people ever play these games? They're rigged from every angle."

The skeleton watched the rain trickle down onto the pier as he started screwing with the watch on his wrist, wondering what it did. The green glow was ominous enough (even if the glow matched his ensemble perfectly), and the skeleton was curious to figure out how it worked. His curiosity was only further peaked by the small black silhouettes on the watch face as he toyed with it, each shape representing a humanoid shape or the occasional... not-so-humanoid. It was weird, and the skeleton didn't like it.